Final Fantasy: Retaliation
by Silent Assassin mk.1
Summary: Two years after FF8, Irvine Kinneas, now at Balamb Garden, is drawn into a potentially disastrous global conflict in this action packed thriller. Undergoing creative surgery.
1. Chapter 1

Frequent visitors to this story may notice a slight difference in this opening summary. This is deliberate; the previous one was stupid and didn't fit in at all with the story. So it's been changed!

If you're reading this for the first time and thinking what a pile of junk it is, you're welcome to give me a really unpleasant review—just remember that this is my first story proper. I'm writing it mostly to draw together the elements of my storytelling, as I'm trying to put action, description and narration into one story. I'm hoping this will be a successful experiment.

This is a first-person story, written in the perspective of Irvine Kinneas, who has since the close of FF8 relocated to Balamb Garden. I should take this time to warn you—if you don't like military technology, action sequences or satirical narration, you should probably turn away.

This story isn't really inspired by Final Fantasy 8; instead, it's a culmination of other influences ranging through books, games and television. _Fight Club_'s lethally paced prose inspired me heavily from the first time I read it, and although it has inspired a lot of my stories, my writing voice is mostly my own. This is intended to be similar to a film noir, drawing in influences from _Sin City_ in the film world, and games such as _Max Payne _and _Metal Gear Solid,_ to name a few.

Well, I hope you enjoy this, and make sure to comment whether you thought it was the greatest thing you ever read or a poorly written pile of crap.

P.S. I own nothing. Actually, that's not entirely true, I own the word "fuckpig" and all rights to it. I don't think I've used it yet, but I'll put the notice in just in case.

Chapter One

The computer-controlled climate in the training centre had begun to feel more humid in recent days. I had been on several visits there in the past week, often following similar attack patterns when fighting the enemies in there. Knowing Zell's penchant for clowning around with machinery, I wouldn't have been surprised to find that he had escalated the temperature to near-uninhabitable levels, cackling mischievously at his prank. And with the disciplinary committee, if they found any sort of discriminating evidence he'd be right down on the punishment red list and no mistake. But, I reminded myself, I was here to cultivate my battlefield skills, not to incriminate Zell, and so I readied my sniper rifle.

Metaphorically speaking, Balamb Garden wasn't a garden in any way, shape or form. Rather, it was a sort of military training academy where young people went to learn the skills needed to be full-fledged mercenaries. I joined Garden simply because it was part of my family's heritage—my father had enrolled there with flying colours, and naturally expected his solitary son to do the same. I adopted guns as my primary weapon, as I also had expertise in that field—again, acquired from my father. He took me out into the fields surrounding Balamb when I was younger, and it was there that I learnt most of my skills. He was an incredible shot—I frequently saw him hit marauding Glacial Eyes from as much as a hundred yards armed with nothing but a bolt-action rifle. These were the sort of skills which made your father popular to all your friends, and many of them pleaded him to show them the ropes of gunfighting. But ultimately, only I was patient enough to persevere with it.

From where I was posted, I had the perfect view of the bridge that ran along the small stream. I could see some bubbles rising to the surface—obviously the piranha were out in full force today. Quite why they decided to import those creatures from Besaid is beyond me, as the little bastards were notorious for attacking you even if you hadn't done anything to antagonise them. I made a promise to myself that if I saw one primed to attack another student, it would be acquainted with the business end of my revolver.

That's when I saw him. Seifer, that is. My arch-enemy. Grrrrr. Just seeing his cocky strut toward the bridge made me tighten my grip on my rifle. I quickly made another promise to myself—to erase the last one. It soon occurred to me that Seifer was completely oblivious to my presence, and for fun, I centred his smug face in my cross-hairs.

_Yeah, that's right,_ I thought. _You just keep walking that way. _The more paces he took toward the exit door, the better, as he was swaggering directly into my line of fire. I was seriously contemplating killing him, I'm not sure why. I'd never had a better opportunity to do so. _Watch your back, Almasy—I'm gunning for you!_

At the precise point that I was going to mockingly pull the trigger, I noticed a Grat in the nearby undergrowth. Seifer was so absorbed in his own coolness that he didn't acknowledge it when it began advancing toward him. _Shit, if he doesn't see it coming…_ So, peering down the barrel of the rifle, I was now faced with a dilemma that I never wanted—I had to kill a fiend to save the life of my ultimate rival.

Why is it always me who has to do this…

However, it wasn't like I'd been in Headmaster Cid's good books at any time in my seven-year tenure at the Garden. I don't think he particularly liked my attitude. I couldn't really care less about raising my SeeD rank, and I made it a primary objective to avoid all post-graduation assignments. For that, I was often C-listed for the important missions. So often that my only out-of-Garden excursion in the last month was a visit to my parents in Balamb. I was beginning to contract cabin fever, and I frequently wondered if I'd ever get out. So, I figured, maybe a good deed would change Cid's stance on me. _Whatever,_ I decided, and jammed my finger down on the trigger. I heard the expended shell clink on the rough ground, and watched in awe as the bullet passed under Seifer's arm by a fraction of a millimetre, and slammed straight into the Grat's body.

"Who's the daddy!" I yelled, and began to do a victory dance. You see, that was probably my best ever shot. It's easy enough to shoot random monsters, but when you do it in such style, you just have to celebrate. The irony of the occasion didn't really occur to me at the time, as I was too absorbed in my triumph.

"Oh, so it's you," Seifer sneered. I could tell that he wasn't pleased at all that I'd just helped him out, and you certainly weren't gonna see me complaining.

" I'd have thought you'd do better there, Seifer," I grinned, basking in my glory. "Not like you to miss such an easy target."

"Hmmm," he grunted, and made his way toward the exit.

"Erm, the word's 'thanks.," I called after him. He made an obnoxious gesture with his hand, and I could tell that he was pretty annoyed about it. _Stuck-up asshole._ Had he been in the Training Centre a few seconds longer, he would probably have interjected with some smart-mouth comment about how he'd known it was there the whole time. No good getting irritated about it though, I realised. Maybe I was just fated never to be a full-fledged SeeD. I began deconstructing my rifle, and folding each component into the carry case. As I did so, the Garden intercom rang.

" Would student number 57290 please report to Headmaster Cid immediately. Thank you.. "

"Oh, great," I said aloud, "an audience with the head first thing on a Monday morning. That's all I friggin' need."

----------------------------

Being a person who didn't much like lifts, I wished for a long time that the consortium who ran the Garden would make some sort of investment in stairs. It all dates back to a unpleasant occasion in my youth, which I won't outline here, but I wasn't too pleased that nothing had been considered. By the time the lift reached the top floor, I was barging through the doors practically before they had even opened. Punishments are something I like to get over with quickly, anyway.

When I opened the ornate double doors which secluded Cid from the rest of the students, I was not surprised to see the headmaster lounging in his desk chair. I didn't usually see much of him; he rarely showed his face outside of assemblies, and only SeeDs on important missions saw him in person. Rumours had begun to spread that half of his face had become deformed, but only the greenest first-year students actually believed that. Cid slowly hauled himself out of his chair when he saw me. "Ah yes, just the person I asked for."

"I didn't do it," I quickly stated. Cid cocked his head to one side and examined me with a puzzled expression.

"Pardon me?"

"It wasn't me, sir. I claim no responsibility."

"If you don't want this mission, I could always give it to Seifer."

Boy, was that enough to make me shut up. No way was I gonna knock this opportunity.

"No, sir I'm fine," I jabbered. "Please, continue."

"As you've probably already guessed, I am going to deploy you on an important mission. I've looked through your personal achievement files, and I have to say, I'm not particularly impressed. Perhaps it's time you added a few extra sentences to your biography." Cid was regarding me with the sort of respect I hadn't seen in all my time here. Naturally, I just had to know what this was all about.

"At approximately 1900 hours on Friday, a group of Esthar soldiers seized some favourable positions in Deling City and the Missile Base. They did not state any sort of motive, but proceeded to engage in battle with the Galbadian Army's troops. After 27 hours of fighting, Esthar had complete control of the Missile Base and the inner city. A request for SeeD assistance was imminent, and President Edea made an official inquiry four hours ago. You will be travelling into the city with SeeD squad C, which will leave as soon as you are ready. Your position will not be on the front line—you are dealing with intelligence."

I groaned at this. What a surprise.

"As you know from your exam, if any other squad fails, your assistance will be needed in the mop-up procedure. Make sure you are fully armed, in case of emergency. Are there any questions about this?"

I stood there rigidly, completely silent. Maybe I should have let Seifer take this after all.

"No? Good. Go and get yourself ready, and don't be long. Dismissed." I slowly headed toward the doors of his office, and wondered why I always seemed to get the leftover scraps no-one else wanted.

----------------------

Normally, when you graduate to SeeD, you get your own luxurious single apartment, where you're no longer hampered by untidy room-mates who never cut their toenails, or hog the shower for inordinate lengths of time, or cramp your space with all their clutter, or snore at night, or listen to loud, crappy music. Sadly, in keeping with my accursed disposition, I was unlucky enough to still share with the biggest slob on the continent. Due to a larger-than-ever amount of new graduates, space in the dorms was at a minimum, and I was one of those who had to remain in a double dorm. As soon as I strode through the door, I saw Zack seated at the table frantically leafing through a book on the history of sorceresses. As usual, his side of the dorm looked like the aftermath of an airstrike.

"S'up," I nodded to him as I passed through. His eyes lit up when he noticed me.

"Hey, you know, I never told you about me and that girl last night!"

"Save it for later," I told him. With any luck, "later" would become "never." Zack was, unfortunately, one of those guys who enjoyed bragging about his sexual exploits in the men's locker room, usually about how many girls he supposedly copped off with the previous night. Not being one of those types myself, I was beginning to get a little tired of hearing his ludicrous fables. It was all a load of crap, naturally.

"You gotta shoot off?" Zack asked. I showed him my twin pistols.

"Got a mission to go on," I informed him. "Nothing too flashy, just a bit of reconnaissance. You know I never get anything decent."

"At least you passed the written exam," Zack grumbled. "I gotta revise for the next three weeks straight just to get into the field exam! Knew I shouldn't have cut class that day…"

I inserted each pistol into leg holsters, and ensured I had enough ammo to start a new Sorceress War. I then selected an assault rifle, and looped the strap over my shoulder. To be honest, I thought I looked rock. After a lingering admiration of myself in the full-length mirror, I exited the dorm, tripping over various textbooks and folders on the way.

------------------

Okay, first chapter done! How did you find it? If you didn't like it, don't worry, it's going to get better over the next few chapters. And yes, I did make up most of Irvine's background—you'll find out how that ties in with his time in the orphanage in coming chapters. Be sure to read and review it—all comments welcomed, even the unpleasant ones. I need some laughter to warm me up on these cold winter nights.


	2. Chapter 2

What's up, people? I'm back! Yes, the second chapter of this disasterpiece is finished and ready for your reading pleasure. C'mon, please, R&R this! I need some encouragement here!

Chapter Two

The Garden car wove through the road that led to Balamb, accompanied by the thunderous rumble of the engine, which for some absurd reason gave me that warm feeling. I'd only been in the car a couple of times before, but I knew from the experiences of others that it was safe enough. However, like most of the Garden's vehicles, the interior design needed some desperate attention. It was a drab, grey colour scheme with seats that looked as if they had been pinched from the back of a rubbish truck, and windows encrusted in slime and fingerprints.

My squad consisted of a bunch of waifs and strays that, like me, never seemed to leave the relative seclusion of the Garden. We had an electronics geek, Gus, who would probably end up doing the donkey work for this mission. He was responsible for hooking up to all the information networks to find out any classified data that was hidden from prying eyes. I had no idea how he managed to do most of this stuff, and to be honest, I didn't care. Our pointman, Firion, also happened to be the squad leader, and was to all intents and purposes a miserable prick. He was well known for his ineptness at organisation, and I had a feeling that the mission would be a hit-and-miss affair under his command (leaning more towards miss.) Finally, our gunner, Leon, rounded off the squad. He was currently posted on top of the car with a belt-fed heavy machine gun; apparently, he was "warding off unwanted attention." The fact that he hadn't fired a single shot justified my scepticism.

"Hey, Firion, I'm bored," Leon called out from the top deck. "Can't I come down now?"

"Let me take this opportunity to remind you that it was you who chose to go up there in the first place," Firion notified him. "We all think you're wasting your time."

"Well fuck you then!" he yelled. I was getting a good idea of those acquainting me on the assignment.

Firion diverted his attention across the car. "You ever been to Deling City before?" he grunted. I assumed he was referring to me.

"Oh yeah. I went to see the presidential parade with my parents a couple of years ago," I replied. "We left before anything untoward happened, though." Gus seemed amused.

"What's up?" I questioned.

"You missed the best bits," he smirked. "I ran a relay from the local television network into my palmtop computer, and recorded all the good stuff."

So he was THAT sort of computer geek. I muttered something indecipherable under my breath, which escaped everyone's attention. Except for Quistis, that is, who shot me a stony glare. Yes, I forgot to mention our dear instructor. I'm not sure why she was accompanying us, but I had a feeling she'd report her observations of our conduct when we got back. I'd have to be careful in my discretions, as anything inappropriate would result in solitary confinement.

By the time the car swung into Balamb Harbour, I was practically tearing my hair out. An argument had broken out on the way, over which of the "Pururun" books was the best. It was a conflict of words that I wanted no part in, and their inane comments grew increasingly wearing as the journey went on. I couldn't wait to get out of the car.

When I finally did, it wasn't for long, as I was herded straight into the vessel docked in the nearby water. We took our seats without discussion—although I half expected the juvenile idiots to quarrel over who got the seat next to the window. I had a deep-rooted love for Balamb, not just because it was my hometown, but because it had a nice, unrushed feel to life. From the distance of the Garden, Balamb was merely a smudge of blue-purple pastel on a blanket of rich green and gold. The cylindrical structure of the hotel rose above the rest of the down, and at nights the town was simply a dark contour punctuated with soft gold lights. Unfortunately though, I didn't spend nearly as much time there as I used to.

The vessel hatch clicked shut and I heard the fuel mechanism start up. Quistis chose not to sit down, and instead stood by the big interactive screen used for briefings. The journey was fairly short, as I already knew. We'd be able to disembark directly on the beach running around the perimeter of Deling City, although I wondered if we'd encounter some Esthar aggressors there.

Firion turned his glare on me. "You can go up to the top and man the weapon," he muttered. It wasn't a question, it was an order. Normally, I'd have put in my two gil on that matter, but as Quistis was watching, I made nothing of it. I sort of gave him a half salute and ascended the ladder.

At the top, I was greeted with a blast of cold night air. Being on the world's northern hemisphere, Deling experienced longer nights than many other cities, and the city was frequently overshadowed by a cloak of starlight. I extracted some binoculars from my pocket and scanned the shore. Just next to our vessel, the other ships embarking on the mission passed by in a flurry of water. Clearly, their assignment was more urgent than ours. I zoomed in on the outskirts of the city. I could see brief flashes of gunfire erupting from the streets, with the occasional shudder of an explosion.

Then I saw it, on the western peak. One of Esthar's trademark hi-tech constructions, which appeared to have a perfect view of any advancing ships. I increased the magnification to maximum, and sure enough, a soldier was monitoring the shoreline.

It was a guard tower.

"Hey, looks like we got company!" I called down the ladder.

"What sort?" Firion's gruff voice queried.

"Looks like an outpost, a manned one," I replied. I re-acquired the soldier in the centre of the binoculars, and activated night-vision. Worse was to come. The soldier on patrol seemed to notice the advancing craft, and bent down out of my line of sight. When he re-emerged, he had a large tube balancing on his right shoulder. _Shit, he's got a Stinger!_

I saw the puff of smoke which acknowledged the firing of a missile, and watched in horror as it darted between a gap in the front two vessels and ploughed into the one hanging just behind them. It erupted in a ball of incandescent flame, and pieces of scorched metal ricocheted in all directions. The blistered shell of the ship sizzled as it sunk into the water.

"Change direction!" I yelled down the ladder.

"Acknowledged," the pilot confirmed, and swung the vessel at a right angle. I could only just see the outline of the guard tower from my current distance, but I zeroed in on it with the mounted automatic weapon. The vessel was clearly taking a new course, but Esthar's advanced weapons systems had lock-on targeting. It was a risky manoeuvre.

"Destination ETA three minutes," the pilot called. From below, I could hear the loading of firearms and projectile weaponry. In the corner of my eye, I registered a small flash. The soldier wasn't done yet, that was for sure.

"Missile launched!" I yelled. Immediately, the pilot began taking evasive action, weaving through inlets and into a narrow river which ran through Galbadia. My attention was focused on the rocket, which was skimming the water as it headed toward us. Esthar's technology enabled missiles to travel below radar, thus avoiding any attempts to destroy them with defensive weaponry. I felt a huge sigh of relief as the rocket began to lose fuel, and it was unable to turn fast enough, colliding harmlessly with a rock. The vessel ran ashore at the nearest beach, signalling that we had to change our course of action. I descended the ladder as fast as I could, and heard the vessel's hatch unfolding.

"Squad A will lay down the suppressing fire at the city entrance," Quistis stated. "Once they've completed that, you move in and secure the area. Got it?" We all nodded without dispute.

"Then go!" Quistis shouted.

Well, there it is. Hope you liked the action parts, because they're going to be quite prevalent in the next chapter. Anyone notice the rather unsubtle FF2 references? All comments/insults/Booker prize nominations welcomed!


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

I'd only ever been to Deling City once before, during my time with Squall, and from what I could recall it was the epicentre of sleazy businessmen and shady dealings. From the city entrance, the casinos and shopping arcades glittered in the distance like golden sunlight reflecting on the water's surface. Firion was as stoic as I expected, not speaking much, but preferring to outline our plan of attack through gesticulations with his hand. I was instructed to cover the city entrance and look out for trouble while the others made their way in. I expertly swept my rifle back and forth over the grassy plain, knowing full well that the trouble lay inside the city's boundaries. Unfortunately, my lady-impressing side had chosen the wrong time to take over.

Gus was the last to pass through the gate, and I followed suit quickly. The city was unearthly quiet—although the battles were taking place in the centre, I couldn't hear the usual intermissions of gunfire which signified a battle. We sprinted past the car-rental outlet, which was dark and unlit, and in the near distance I could see the traffic signals where we were to set up base. They were still functional, but appeared to be stuck on green.

"Are we there yet?" I asked.

"Shut up," Firion retorted. His nerves were clearly frayed from the tension, but I could see he wasn't the kind of person who treated every mission like fun. Gus ran ahead of us to the base of the lights, and threw the black sack he was carrying down next to it. I watched, intrigued, as he picked the lock on the panel which held all the traffic controls, opened the hatch, and began attaching wires to his palmtop and vice versa. For all I knew about computers, he could have been making the whole thing up.

Firion arrived last, and sulked over to a lamppost. He extracted a cigarette from a pocket in his uniform, put it between his lips, but didn't light it. As I watched his animations, he rolled the little stick around in his lips, chewing the end. Obviously some sort of nervous habit.

All four of us turned our heads as we registered the high-speed screech of tires on tarmac. A SeeD Garden car gunned round the corner, went into a ninety-degree handbrake turn, and jerked to a halt. The driver's door opened, and one of the SeeDs from Squad B leapt out. I recognized him immediately.

"S'up, Nida." Even though I was in uniform, I kept my hat on, and I tipped it in his direction.

"Uh… We got problems," he managed.

"What? What sort of problems?" Firion demanded.

"Our captain's gone berserk. Killed everyone. We don't know what triggered this, but he seemed really pissed off about something." Nida paused to take a long-forgotten breath. "Cid told me that Seifer would be trouble."

"Wait, wait," I interjected. "_Seifer_?"

"Yeah," Nida confirmed. "Our regular pointman pulled out at the last minute cause he got poisoned in the Training Centre. We didn't have any other choices."

"That bastard," I murmured. "I knew he'd pull some crazy stunt like this."

"Shit!" The incensed Firion tore the cigarette from his mouth, tore it in two, and hurled it across the street. He turned to Nida, regaining his calm. "You gotta carphone I could use?"

Nida gestured toward the car with his head. "There's one in the back if you need it." Firion needed no extra encouragement. He jumped in the back of the car almost immediately, and we could clearly hear him talking into the reciever. "Yeah? Put me through to Headmaster Cid. Who do ya think it is? The fairy friggin' godmother? Yeah, I'll hold… Sir? Sir, we've got a really big problem. It's Squad B's commander. He's flipped out. He's gone—"

Abruptly, the few pockets of light from nearby houses that illuminated the road dissolved into blackness. Firion leapt out of the car, phone clenched in his hand. "What the hell happened?" he shouted in a voice underscored with panic.

"Yo, man!—I think I cut the wrong wire…"

"DAMMIT!" Firion yelled, and hurled the phone to the ground in abject disgust. He looked at the other four of us in turn. "Now what the hell are we gonna do?"

"Look," I said, "we need to get someone to get up there and provide some cover. If Seifer's completely whacked out, someone needs to help the other squads out."

"It appears he's going for the Galbadians," Nida put in.

"Even so," I said, "you can never be too sure." Firion's expression switched to one of almost bewildered consideration.

"You've got a good point," he proclaimed. He looked up at me. "You. You go."

"Me?" I blurted out. "Look, I wasn't suggesting myself or anything, it's just—"

"Look, you're the one with the fancy weaponry, so you're clearly armed for the job. And, more significantly, this was your idea, so you might as well be the one to do it." He leant back against the Garden car. "Well, what are you waiting for?"

"Maybe you should do it," I suggested. "You are the squad leader, after all."

"Hey, I've got a better idea," Nida said. " Why don't you both stop acting like a pair of pussies and both do it." Firion and I looked at each other with glances that registered that get-me-out-of-here-now feeling.

"I'm game if you are," I declared.

"Fine," Firion replied. He thrusted himself away from the car, and produced a pistol for the folds of his blazer. I cast a glare toward the other members of our squad.

"You'd better watch the fort," I said. "Keep watch over the city entrance and the signals here. Gus, if anyone comes through, bore 'em to death with your computer talk."

"You got it!" he agreed. Firion and I began to make our way along the boulevard.

-----------------------

To tell the truth, I didn't know all that much about Seifer's behaviour. Obviously, I'd been involved in all the business with Ultimecia way back when, when he'd been involved with the sorceresses, but I'd spent most of my time before that at Galbadia Garden. I only transferred to B-Garden after we defeated Ultimecia, because I needed to take the field exam there before I could graduate to the status of SeeD. A few discussions with Selphie revealed bits and pieces about his character—as, by coincidence, they both took the same field exam. Seifer had a deep-rooted dislike for Galbadian soldiers, which had emerged during the exam. He would frequently burst into aggressive tirades toward his foes, wading into groups of them wielding his Hyperion, and this failure to control his violent urges consequently cost him SeeD status. I made a mental note to speak to Selphie when I returned to the Garden.

I registered a small glint in the corner of my eye as we headed past the presidential residence. It came from the bushes which garnered the sidewalk. I turned my head ever so slightly, careful not to arouse any attention. There it was again—the reflection of moonlight on adamantine black metal. Instinctively, I lunged into Firion.

"GET DOWN!" I yelled. There was the briefest of flashes from the bush, and a split-second later, a car parked on the other side of the street combusted in a bright, petrol-fuelled fireball. The blackened doors were hurled into the air and crashed down about fifteen feet down the road. I rolled over, pistol in hand, and drew a bead on the copse where the grenade had come from. With my aim centred, I squeezed the trigger, firing off a shot in the direction of the grenadier. There was a muffled yelp, and a rustle, as the body collapsed into the undergrowth. I jumped to my feet.

"Come on, we gotta get moving," I said. "The reinforcements'll arrive soon."

"I'm not going anywhere," Firion insisted.

From across the other side of the street, a figure in hi-tech combat armor rounded the corner. "Over there!" he yelled. He was wielding an MP5 submachinegun, and I figured that there were no negotiations. I dove in a combat roll behind the nearest saloon car, and gunfire erupted from the soldier's direction. Bullets splattered into the car and the nearby pavement, pockmarking the side doors and erupting in shreds of concrete and tarmac. I peered stealthily around the car, and could see the soldier advancing toward me. He wasn't stupid, I could see. I readied another pistol in my left hand, and cocked the hammer. Just a few more metres…

All it needed was paramount timing. With the soldier in my peripheral vision, I leapt out sideways, firing both pistols in semi-automatic. The rounds slammed into the Esthar soldier's torso, and the inertia of the impact flung him into a nearby bench, which splintered as he slumped into it. I clicked the clip release on the side of each pistol, and the expended clips fell to the pavement with a metallic clink.

"Right, I'm going after Seifer," I declared, holstering the pistols and readying my assault rifle. Firion cowered behind the car, shivering, and I knew he was staying put. If I knew anything about Seifer, he'd be heading for the presidential residence.

Unsurprisingly, as I headed in the direction of the ominous structure, an Esthar army truck careened round the corner. _Shit, I've got no cover!_ I switched my rifle to single-shot mode, and fired one round into the vehicle's front tire. Chunks of rubber detached from the burst tire, and sparks were thrown off the front wheel as the wheelrim scraped the ground. The truck's braked emitted a high-pitched squeal as the driver forced it to stop. Soldiers emerged from the back—_only the standard grunts_, I informed myself, as I saw their pickaxe-shotgun hybrids. Without hesitation, they fired toward me, and the buckshot rounds sparked in the asphalt. _Good job those shotguns are for short range. _I fired a burst at the nearest soldier, which pinned him to the side of the truck. His cohort obviously knew to take advantage, and retrieved the other's shotgun. He fired both weapons at me in consecution, but to no avail, as the fall-off was too great. I readied a 40mm grenade in the over-and-under grenade launcher attached to my rifle, increased the trajectory, and pulled the trigger. The grenade floated lazily toward the army truck, spewing white smoke, and detonated just behind the truck. The force of the explosion wasn't enough to deter the other soldier, but red-hot shrapnel splashed in his face, and he flung himself to the ground. The truck meanwhile, was shunted forward by the explosion, and jack-knifed into the back of the car Firion was hiding behind, which in turn was hurled into a nearby lamppost. My job done, I scanned the nearby terrain for more, and, determining that there weren't, I continued toward the Presidential Residence.

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The wrought iron-gates of the residence were decorated with two new additions—patrolling Esthar soldiers, clearly guarding their most important capture. Leaning flush on the wall that ran around the residence, I whistled to attract the nearest guard's attention. He appeared to cast a puzzled glance to his colleague, who nodded as if to agree to him checking it out. He began to investigate the nearby area, and when he reached me, I grabbed him from behind and clamped a hand over his mouthpiece. Without hesitation, I thrust an elbow into his temple, and the body went limp. The other guard, thankfully, had not perceived any commotion, and so I extracted a combat knife from my uniform and hurled it toward his neck. The impact was almost perfect, and he dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes. I ran over to him and searched the body for any important keys, but found none. As quietly as possible, I loosened the handle of the gate, and it glided open with a soft creak. Scanning the gardens for any cameras, I headed to the front door. I was quite startled to find it already open, and a door guard lying in an uncomfortable heap on the red carpet. _Oh no… _

Okay, I'm gonna stop there, because I like leaving chapters ending on cliffhangers. Sorry there wasn't much humour in this chapter, but I figured even Irvine couldn't crack a joke under this pressure. Chapter 4 coming soon!.


	4. Chapter 4

Wow, I can't believe it's been three weeks since I last updated this. Unfortunately, those three weeks have been the longest and hardest of my school life. Homework, coursework assignments, coupled with visits to my hometown—I just haven't had the time to update this. But, at last, here it is. Remember to post your comments. Oh, and if you're a long-time reader, I'm going to make a few updates to existing chapters. Enjoy!

Chapter Four

Okay, I admit it—I suffer from claustrophobia. It's not drastic, but I don't like to be stuck in confined spaces if I can help it. Sadly, the occasion called in Deling City, and so I found my self crawling through the smallest of air vents, with generous amounts of slime garnering the steel tube.

I could only assume Seifer had been the one to kill the guard at the front entrance—why any Galbadian would risk attacking an Esthar soldier when their were dozens of backup troops sprinkled around the place made no sense. What made the situation even worse was that Seifer was the obvious culprit—and he was evidently last in the line when common sense was handed out. To find the trenchcoated SeeD, a good sense of hearing was required; as I had no location mapping, I needed to listen for any signs of that bragging voice. Sure enough, as I shifted over a grating in the air vent, voices drifted through the grating. But this wasn't the braggart's dogmatic drawl—they were the filtered vocals of an Esthar elite warrior. Two, as a matter of fact. I retracted so they couldn't see me if they happened to glance upwards, and strained to pick up the conversation.

"You think the sorceress got backup?" the first soldier asked. His comrade, dressed in the same bug-eyed outfit, cocked his head in interest.

"Dunno," he stated. "Don't think she'd go far without her army, but we've mopped up most of the resistance."

"I ordered Delta Squadron to patrol the city boundaries," the other affirmed. "We don't need any loose cannons on this deck, least of all intruders."

"Did ya hear about the intruder?"

"Yeah," the other one replied. I might have been imaging it, but I thought I detected a hint of fear in that processed monotone. "It's gotta be SeeD. No-one else could've got into the city and made it this far, without being killed."

_Seifer, you prick_, I thought. _Can't you ever do a mission without causing trouble?_

"Wish I was that good a sharpshooter," the first guard commented. "Wish all of us were. That way, we'd win every war." The guards had a good chuckle about that.

_Wow, I'm flattered_, I thought, a wry smile involuntarily wrapping round my face. Steady, clicking footsteps resonated through the hallway, metal on metal. The reverberations echoed through another grate further down the air duct. They sounded like the metallic heels of another Esthar guard. The second man turned to face the direction of the sound.

" Did you restrain the hostage?" he asked.

Hostage? Maybe they've got someone with bargaining power… 

"All done, Private," the new soldier responded. "However, there's been a slight change of plan. I contacted the commander, and he said to inform you of the new plans. You're both being relieved of duty." The two guards stood fast and saluted the other soldier—clearly, they were pretty pleased with the decision. I suspected they'd take their earnings to the Galbadian Hotel's bar. Lightning-quick and without warning, the new soldier's right hand darted over his shoulder, and withdrew a long, gun-metal coloured bladed weapon. _Hyperion_. In one smooth movement, the traitor plunged his gunblade into the first soldier's torso. The exoskeleton angrily spluttered sparks as the built-in defence mechanisms were severed, leaving the soldier powerless. As he clamped his hand round the wound, thick blood began to mingle with the frayed wires, blanketing their sparkling ends. The traitor withdrew his gunblade with a dragging metallic sound, and swung it toward the other soldier, who was now advancing, shotaxe drawn. He was about to depress the trigger when the blade sliced cleanly through his exposed neck. The ant-like head detached from the body, and connected with the floor, the sound like an accidentally-dropped frying pan. The body drunkenly heeled to the floor, the neck crackling with excess electrical energy. Blood seeped out of the gaping wound, pooling on the thick red carpet.

_Holy shit!_ my mind frantically screamed. _What the hell is he DOING!_ Without hesitation, I withdrew my face from the grating as quickly as I could. Too quickly. Seifer's head swivelled toward the duct, alerted to the scuffing of fabric on steel. _Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit—he saw me…_

Seifer tilted the 'blade over his shoulder, and skulked threateningly toward the air vent. I knew that he knew that I was in here, and he wasn't making any concessions. Slowly, he adjusted the gunblade at arm's length, and poked the vent a few feet away from my position. The steel buckled, inverting upwards with the tip of the blade. As slowly as possible without making a sound, I reached to my waist and freed the Beretta 92 pistol I had wedged in my belt prior to the mission. Tilting it through one of the diamond-shaped gaps in the criss-crossed grating, I aligned the bug-esque head with the barrel of the gun. Seifer moved more in my direction, and in a frighteningly fast movement, thrust the blade through the grating, so far that it punctured the roof of the duct. He only needed one more step—

A smash drifted through the red-carpeted hallway, the sharp vibration that of a dislodged ornament, probably a vase of some sort. Seifer's head jerked attentively toward the other end of the hallway. He was on the ball all right. After a few long seconds, he withdrew the Hyperion, holstered it over his shoulder, and sprinted away. I expelled my held breath in a sigh of relief.

--------------

The hallways of the presidential residence were decorated with many attractive features, the sort that a president would own. There were ornate blue and gold vases perched on pedestals, protected by thick cords of red rope—probably connected to the alarm system. Baroque gold-framed paintings lined the walls, portraits of all the previous presidents of Galbadia. Even at this time, I still had an injection of humour, and mockingly levelled Deling's picture in my imaginary cross-hairs. Golden light fittings were positioned at equal distances along the hallway. At the other end, there was a pair of mahogany double-doors—the presidential chamber. Being a betting man, I strongly suspected that the odds for Esthar soldiers to be in there wouldn't pay much. Most likely, the soldiers would take their hostages there, as the doors and windows were bullet-proof, and the walls at least two feet thick. I withdrew the Beretta, crept to the door and placed my ear to it. The president's room was probably carpeted, so most noises would also be inaudible. Clever.

From inside, there was no conversation, merely a hollow silence. But after half a minute or so, the faint rumbles of voices vibrated through the mahogany door.

"Major, I seem to recall asking you to monitor the second-floor hallway." The synthesised voice was deeper; probably deliberate, to signify the commissioner's superiority. "So what are you doing here?"

"Sir, I can assure you there's no trouble on that floor." This soldier was probably lower in the pecking order. Abruptly, my train of thought jerked to a halt. Second-floor hallway. _Wasn't that where I came from?_

No sooner had I thought this than a metallic swish sounded from the reverse side of the door, accompanied by a guttural cry of pain. Somehow, Seifer had managed to get into the presidential chamber before me. _That bastard. _Knowing I had no more time to waste, I planted my foot in the centre of the double doors, and they swung open with a splinter of wood. An Esthar soldier on the near side of the four-poster bed heard the crashing sound, and immediately assumed a marksman's stance, shotaxe held at arm's length. But he wasn't quick enough—I slammed my finger down on the 92's trigger, and a single round exploded in the confines of the bedroom. The soldier, hit square at the edge of the forehead, twisted round awkwardly and collapsed onto the bed.

"Irvine," Seifer sneered, the cocky grin beginning to invade his facial features. "So nice of you to join the party. In fact, I ought to thank you. You saved me the effort of polishing off that guard."

"Haven't you killed enough already?" I shot back. Seifer threw his head back, the raucous laugh scrambled through the voice-processor.

"Irvine, a grunt like you could never understand." He placed both hands on the helmet, and carefully yanked it off, revealing his golden hair, which was slightly ruffled from its confines. He absently tossed the helmet aside. I quickly surveyed the surroundings. The bedroom was in utter chaos. It was lit only by two standard lamps on bedside tables each side of the four-poster, as the chandelier had been shattered by buckshot. Crystalline chips of glass littered the white carpet. The commissioner Seifer had murdered was lying in an uncomfortable heap on the floor, his blood soaking into the carpet like a spilt wine-glass. President Edea was kneeling at the end of her bed, and upon seeing Seifer, she seemed to relax, and began to stand up.

"Oh, Seifer," she exclaimed, relieved. "I don't know how to thank you—"

"Shut up!" Seifer yelled, interrupting her. In a smooth movement, he produced a sawn-off shotgun in his left hand, and positioned it two inches from Edea's forehead. "Get down on your knees." Reluctantly, she dropped back to her prostrate position. She flinched every time Seifer shifted the weapon, indicating orders.

"Hey, Seifer," I warned, "she's still a sorceress. You mess with her, she could burn you to a crisp."

"And you can shut up, as well," he retorted, thrusting the tip of the Hyperion toward me.

"Look, Seifer, I know you probably don't want to share it with me, but would you mind telling me what the hell you're doing?" Seifer turned his cold glare on mine, evidently thinking I was a fool.

"Do you know what this woman did to me? Every day I think about my dream, to be the greatest warrior that ever lived. It ain't an impossible goal. But thanks to this bitch, I'm stuck in that no-hoper Garden!"

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but I seem to recall you did that of your own will." My reply incensed Seifer even more. But another voice cut in before he could retaliate.

"He's right, Seifer, and you don't want to admit it, do you?" The husky female voice could only belong to one person—Instructor Trepe. To my relief, she held a Glock 17, pointed directly at Seifer's head.

"Quistis, my dear," Seifer frowned patronisingly. "Don't you recall what happened in Timber?"

"Oh yes, I was there, in the TV station," Quistis replied. "But that was your lack of resistance. Edea simply used her psychology to coax your favour. It was your own weakness that betrayed you."

"Shut up!" Seifer yelled again, though more in desperation than fury. He lowered the shotgun in his left hand.

"You don't think I'd hesitate to shoot you, do you?" Quistis inquired. "After all, I'm trained in Salamander weaponry." She was referring to the .50 cal mounted on the SeeD vessels. Seifer put a hand on his forehead, as if nursing an ache there.

"Instructor, I…" His voice faded to a whisper. At this point, I was probably the most perplexed person in the city. Suddenly, the shotgun in his left hand belched flame, and the nearby window was lined with jagged cracks. He threw the gunblade directly toward it, and the tip shattered the glass into a thousand tiny fragments. Seifer darted for the escape route, and Quistis and I both raised our weapons in response. But our ineffectual gunfire merely shredded sections of wallpaper, doing nothing to deter Seifer. He leapt through the open window, and Quistis and I could only watch in horror as he plunged toward the tree-lined mansion grounds.

"We're pretty high up," I commented. "Won't he hurt himself?"

"Not if he's junctioned." Quistis shook her head in defeat. After Seifer was out of sight, we turned away from the window. Quistis tossed the Glock onto the four-poster bed. I regarded her with a glance of annoyance.

"I hate him," I gritted through clenched teeth. "But you probably knew that already." Even in the face of failure, she still managed a knowing smile. I gave Edea my arm, and hauled her to her feet.

"Are you okay, m'lady?" I addressed her with the proper courtesy, but she dismissed it with a weak smile.

"Irvine, just because I'm president of Galbadia, you don't have to treat me any different. Call me Matron, if you like." Clearly, she yearned for the days of the orphanage, where she was surrounded by the undisturbed innocence of childhood. Quistis put a comforting arm round her shoulder.

"Come on, Matron," she said. "We'll get you to safety."

"There's still a few troops in the outskirts," I said. "We ought to take care. I'll protect you as best I can, Matron." For a fleeting second, I thought I saw a tear washing over her eye.

-------------

We managed to get out of the city with a minimal amount of trouble. There were only a few guards concealed behind copses, but there was no need to alert. We didn't need any attention, especially when we were escorting the hostage out of the city. Truth be told, though, Seifer had done such a good job that none of us had anything to fear. Once we reached the rows of presentable suburban houses, usually bordered with palm trees that were silhouettes against the navy blue sky, we knew we were safe.

The vessels were waiting in the stream which ran through Deling's outskirts toward the canyons. Edea was safely boarded onto Squad D's vessel. Quistis and I clambered through the open hatch of C Squad's Salamander,

pinpricks of light from the stars reflecting on its smooth polished emerald metal. The comforting rumble of the engine sounded from the open hatch, and vibrated through the seats, and not long after the three sections of the closing hatch clicked shut. Although I had offered to take up weapon duty, Quistis said that SeeD marksmen had taken out the guard towers on the perimeter.

For the first ten minutes out to sea, neither of us said anything. The mission wasn't the hardest I'd faced, primarily because I'd helped to defeat the world's most powerful sorceress two years earlier, but I still felt strapped nonetheless. I swung my legs onto the glass-topped coffee table in the centre of the cabin.

"What happened to the other members of my team, Instructor," I asked.

"They fled the city almost as soon as you'd left," she informed me. "The Estharians tuned up after you went to the inner city, and laid siege to their truck. As soon as the soldiers were out of earshot, they hightailed it to the vessel and left Galbadia."

"But, Instructor," I said with mocking drama, "That's desertion!"

"Yes, they'll be suitably punished. I don't suspect you'll be going on many more missions with _them_."

It went silent again, punctuated by the hissing of water as waves lapped the vessel. As I was closing my eyes for a little recuperation, Quistis posed a question out of the blue.

"Irvine, have you ever heard of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder?" My mind suddenly jetted back to dull Science lessons in Galbadia Garden. Our teacher, Mr. Sylveste, was unimpeachably one of the most boring human beings to walk the planet. Students looking for a cure for insomnia couldn't do much better. I vaguely remembered the term, but memories of the lesson consisted of flicking balls of blotting paper toward Sylveste, and flashing grins toward the attractive girls.

"Yeah," I lied, "it rings a bell. Not a very loud one, though."

"Basically, it's a result of traumatic experiences, as the name suggests. Symptoms often include flashbacks to particularly bad events during that time, and general mental disturbance. Sufferers are usually those who take part in wars. In Seifer's case, it's probably due to Ultimecia's control of his mind—as you know from Edea, sorceresses can make you do unpleasant things."

"So you think that Seifer's got this Post-Trauma whatever it's called?" Then, it clicked. Of course. Seifer probably wanted to take revenge on Edea, thinking that she was responible for his disturbance. By killing all guards, including Galbadians, he could get to her, no problem. And dressing as an Esthar soldier was an easy way to get inside the Presidential Residence. I wouldn't have been surprised if Seifer deliberately poisoned that SeeD so he could get in the mission. Across the table, Quistis shook her head.

"Why is it that everything I say sounds like an Instructor? Maybe I should lighten up a bit…"

I shot her a grin from under my hat. "That's okay. I dig serious chicks."

---------------

Amazingly, I'd spent so much time in the nocturnal climes of Deling City that I'd forgotten it was still daytime. Imagine my surprise when we docked on the beach south of B-Garden, and exited the vessel to be greeted by a red-and-gold streaked sunset. It was a nice part of the beach, shaded by groaning oak trees, which cast thick shadows onto the clean white sand. It would make a nice sunbathing spot—if you could defend against the Fastitocalons.

The time wasn't the only thing I'd forgotten. Selphie had gone out of her way to organise a Garden Festival—and it started in two hours' time. And I wasn't going to any party without having a shower. Those stupid air vents made my uniform look like I'd been cleaning Winhill chimneys. I knew I couldn't get too comfortable in the shower—Cid would almost certainly call me to his office for a debriefing. As soon as I rounded the hallway to my dorm, I decided not to be so desperate for missions in the future. The grey boxy cuboid of a hallway that led to the dormitories was usually littered with slackers and idle clowns who dropped out of the field exam, and spent most of their time whining about the next one.

Once I got in the double dorm, I felt a sigh of relief, as I noticed the absence of my room-mate. He'd probably gone to evening study, and you weren't gonna see me getting annoyed about it. I stripped down to my boxers, and stuffed the soiled uniform in the washing-basket. The shower that followed was prolonged, but made those taut muscles ease nicely. My legs were beginning to feel less stiff. I stayed in the shower for about forty minutes, the sweet silence of the empty dorm only disturbed by the soft drumming of hot water on the plastic tray.

I now had even less time to get prepared, so I immediately changed into smarter apparel. I selected a pair of charcoal-black slacks from my drawer, a starched white shirt and a black tie. Normally, I had no trouble dressing myself, but that tie… After five minutes of futile struggle, yanking it in every direction, I left it in an inadequate choking knot. It was practically impossible to loosen, and I knew I'd have hell trying to get it off later, but I had more important things to concentrate on. Coupled with the untucked shirt, I looked like I couldn't be bothered to attend the festival—which wasn't far from the truth.

Just in case, I constructed a report on the mission. Cid was known for springing this unpleasant surprise on his SeeDs, so I preferred to err on the safe side of caution. Obviously, my report was complete nonsense, every detail showing Seifer in an insulting light, and plenty of exaggeration in the combat scenes. The handwriting wasn't much good, either. In fact, it looked so appalling, I merely stuffed it in my uniform pocket, hoping Cid would forget the whole thing.

-------------

There was no argument about it—Selphie had a natural eye for design. The quad was a large dome-like hall, lined with marble pillars, hanging plants, chandeliers and a large tiled dance-floor, complete with marble pillars, leather-topped bar stools and a gold-rimmed skylight. Somehow, with just a few limited resources (and more patience than I'd managed in my entire life), she'd managed to turn it from a dumpy assembly hall into a respectable ballroom. Only a few members of the Garden Festival lined the quad, most attending to the stage or the bar, and Selphie was no exception. She was fumbling with a miniature chandelier, but to little avail. As soon as she saw me, she practically dropped it on the floor. I don't think she expected me to be on time.

"Irvine.." she said reluctantly. "I didn't think you'd be back this early."

"Yeah, they let me off my leash," I smirked. "Didn't go so well though. No thanks to that fucking Seifer."

"What happened? I thought he wasn't going…"

"Yeah, he only joined Nida's squad at the last minute. I think their usual guy had to go to the infirmary. Anyway, he went completely nuts, killed pretty much everyone—didn't matter which side they were on, and then threatened the President. Quistis and I confronted him, but he wouldn't listen. He fled the place in the end."

"He doesn't listen to anyone. I'm not surprised he caused you trouble." There was a moment's pause. "How is Matron?"

"Oh, she's holding up OK. Not sure she likes her new job as President of Galbadia." I thought back to the parade, two years ago. "Rule states that whoever murders the president becomes the successor, so it's unlucky that she was possessed at the time."

She turned away, possibly not wanting to continue the conversation. "Listen, Irvine, you can't come to my dorm this evening."

"Why not?" I was puzzled.

"It's been a really long day. I just wanna crash out at the end of it."

"Oh, come on. I only want to talk. Please?" I pleaded. "Like, don't you want to know how my day was? What I'm doing tomorrow? The breeding habits of the Caterchipillar? Surely you want to talk about something."

"I'm really tired. And anyway, I haven't got anything interesting to talk about."

"Strikes me you're just making excuses for the sake of excuses." Selphie whirled around, an angry frown darkening her little face.

"Do you have any idea what I've been doing lately? Do you really think I've got time for this?" She continued to fumble with the chandelier, but wasn't actually doing anything.

"It's not like I'm forcing you to!" I exclaimed. With Selphie, I'd never been quite sure if my feelings were reciprocated. I knew she didn't dislike me, but perhaps my flirty nature and charm were too much for a solid relationship. Still, she was always kind of strange. She swung from top of the world to the bottom of a trashcan in a matter of hours. Maybe I just didn't understand her.

"I haven't seen you at all for the last week," I complained. "We're supposed to be in a relationship here. Don't you know what that means?"

"You don't know anything about the meaning of a relationship," she said darkly. It was like an emotional knife thrust into my ribcage. The bitter silence was shattered by the intercom, announcing Cid's intrusion. It was almost perverse—I'd never been so glad to go to his office.

--------------

The debriefing was as grim as I had expected. While not condemning me for losing track of the rogue Seifer, he firmly reprimanded me for my lack of judgement when facing off with him. Seifer was now a danger at large, primarily thanks to myself. However, any fingers pointing toward me had to go in Quistis' direction, too.

"Now, Irvine," Cid mused in his fatherly tone, "you say you left your squad voluntarily, as an attempt to halt Seifer's rampage. Is this correct?"

"If I said it wasn't, I'd be lying," I confirmed.

"I think you could have used a little more reservation," he replied, wagging a finger. "Okay, I admit, I permitted the use of live ammunition, but I wasn't expecting you to shoot off more rounds than the Sorceress War."

"Sir, I didn't kill anyone who didn't threaten my wellbeing," I answered defensively. "It was all in my course of action." Cid seemed to mull over that for a few moments.

"Sir, I can confirm that Irvine used tactical thinking and responsibility in his actions," Quistis broke in. "He did a very good job in protecting his team-mates, and acted with their best interests in mind. He obeyed orders that he was given, as well." _Good old Quistis. She never lets me down_. Somehow, Quistis must have been watching most of my actions.

"And as for you, instructor, I would have expected more of you," Cid scolded. "You know how temperamental Seifer can be." Quistis seemed to hang her head in shame. "I am not going to punish either of you, as I know from past experience what it's like to handle Almasy. But something must be done about him.

We both stood fast and made for the exit, and silence descended over the office like a fog, as Cid lowered himself into his office chair. But I heard a voice as I was passing through the door. "However, Irvine, I would like you to do one more thing for me today. It concerns the Garden Festival."

------------

The music was awful, I noted, as it always was. It was now half an hour or so into the Garden Festival, and as usual, my ears were being abused by faceless ballads and whining teen rock, courtesy of Zell's group. Thankfully, he was a pretty good bass player. Still, I almost wished someone had slipped alcohol into the fruit punch I was sipping—sipping it because it was too watery and flavourless to take in large doses. At least the bar stools were comfortable. I signalled to the bartender to get me something harder, and he reached up to the top shelf of the drinks rack built into the wall behind him, retrieving a bottle of amber liquid.

After previous head Wimbly Donner was expelled from SeeD, Selphie took up the mantle of Garden Festival Committee Leader. One thing that didn't really change in the transition was the lack of helping hands—both leaders basically organised the whole thing themselves. The festivals were an annual event organised to celebrate the inauguration of new SeeDs. I remembered mine from the previous year—well, up until the part when I got onto the Anacondaur Brew. Disgusting stuff.

Anyway, before Selphie came along, the festivals only took place once every year, and all efforts were poured into that one event. Now, they took place almost quarterly, as the turnout was usually very high, producing more income for further festivals and winter vacations. I made the mistake of going on a Winter vacation once—I spent most of it in bed with some hideous illness.

I quite liked the festivals in spite of the ghastly music. They had a nice party atmosphere, everyone who turned up seemed relaxed, and most of those were willing to let a dance take precedence over their daily routine. Unfortunately for me, though, I wasn't there to enjoy myself. This festival was simply a society function set up to trap some untoward visitors. I wasn't really sure why Cid wanted to have a "friendly" word with them—Seifer's moronic actions had invited enough attention toward Garden from other nations. But, of course, he had his reasons. "You know, I'm not sure why these people are interested in the Garden. I'd be able to understand if they were White SeeD members, or from Galbadia garden, but they don't seem to be affiliated with anyone. I'd quite like to know what they want. Are you listening, Irvine?" The answer to that question, seemingly, was no. But I knew enough about Cid's conditioning to agree on the mission. Handy, then, that the Garden Festival was so close.

The worst thing about the mission was that Cid weighed me down with unnecessary gadgets. Smoke generators, x-ray glasses, blowpipes disguised as fountain pens… it was enough to make me wonder why I didn't go off into the Trabian wilderness and live a quiet life instead.

Another half-hour or so passed before my boredom was cut short. It had taken me far longer to notice, amongst all the clamour, that Selphie wasn't present. It wasn't like her to disappear in the midst of her great creation. _Never mind_, I thought, as someone spooned the lukewarm punch into a cut-crystal glass, _she probably needs some time on her own._

From my position at the bar, I saw someone enter the quad out of the corner of my eye. It was a bald, stocky man clad in an impeccably pressed white tuxedo. Luckily, I was wearing the glasses Cid had given me, and so I surreptitiously darkened the shade. To my shock, not only was he one of the two visitors I was looking for, but he had a .45 slung in a holster under his left arm. The hammer wasn't down, but the safety was off, and I got the impression the intent was to cause harm. Making my excuses, I left the bar. I had already figured out a mental contingency plan for this, and I headed out the exit doorway. There was a dark blue, unlit hallway just outside the quad, its walls lined with antique paintings, mostly of high-achieving SeeDs. It led to a balcony lined with creepers, a perfect vantage point for my plan. Once I was up there, I leant up over the curved rim. The guest had taken up residence next to a pillar, a half-full glass of punch clutched in his left hand—obviously keeping his right hand free to take the gun. He stayed there for a few drawn-out minutes, which wasn't very entertaining for me, I can say. But finally, when his punch was finished, he heaved himself up from his backward-leaning position, placed the drained glass on the bar-top, and headed for the exit.

_Oh, so you're finally going? I thought I was going to fall asleep…_ Leaping down the stairs two at a time, I reached into the folds of my blazer and produced my trusty Beretta. If I could reach the quad entrance before he did…

…and, sure enough, he was just striding toward the stairway leading to the main hall when I burst out. The look of surprise on his smug face was extinguished when the barrel of my 92 clubbed him round the head. He sagged to the floor like a sack of potatoes. I reached down and grabbed two fistfuls of his dinner suit.

"Boy, have we got some catching up to do…"

---------------

Phew, finally got that done. This chapter was going to be a bit longer, but I decided to cut it short. As I said before, I like cliffhangers. More action to come in the next chapter. Who is this guy? More to the point, where's the other one? And what are they doing here? All will be revealed.

Just a few short notices. This chapter is inspired by some other material, namely Metal Gear Solid (crawling in air vents and stealth) and Die Hard (that bit when Seifer is prodding the air vent with his Hyperion.) Also, I got the bits about Zell's bass playing and the Salamander vessels from Peptuck's Gunblade Saga. Much respect to him.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

All the light and sound in the Garden car park was provided by a single flickering strip-light. The incessant buzzing was accompanied by flashes of light which reflected of the grey steel walls. It had taken me a good few minutes to drag the Galbadian the few hundred yards from the Quad to the relative safety of the car park--originally, I didn't think he'd go down so easily, but I soon learnt that the reality being the opposite was a problem.

"I guess it was you that ate all the mini cheesecakes," I remarked as I stuffed his prone form into the back of a car. It was a green-and-gold Garden car, so it wouldn't drive off in a hurry. I grinned as I pictured a visitor driving away from the Garden, their night of partying over, only to discover an unwanted passenger in the back. Luckily, that passenger was out stone-cold, giving me plenty of time to locate and pacify the other. Hopefully, he hadn't become as friendly with the platters of food passed around the quad. With my job done, I headed for the main hall.

It was peaceful in the main hall, given that most students and visitors were out of sight—any SeeDs who didn't feel like attending the festival holed up in the secret area. Couldn't blame them, really; the incessant blaring of polka music proved to be a somewhat unpleasant distraction, especially if you weren't feeling so good. The other sound was the gentle trickling of running water, which came from the blue fish-fountains. The steaming water was particularly refreshing on a brisk winter day; many students would lean over the railing in an attempt to shake off the chills.

When I reached the Quad, the energy of the Festival had died down slightly. The students with a tendency to drink themselves stupid were already inebriated by now, and would undoubtedly get more tempermental as the night wore on. Many of them chose wine as their weapon of choice, something I couldn't understand. To be honest, I hated the stuff. It didn't matter where you got it from, whether it was the vineyards of Timber, the snow-capped forests of Trabia, the rusty deserts of Centra—all of it tasted like vinegar to me.

Some visitors regarded me with the I-wonder-what-he's-been-up-to stare. Suspicions were easy to harbour in such a place—you never knew who'd be attending the festival with you. Higher-ranking political figures had a tendency to be followed, and although there were less than previous seasons, a few were sprinkled around the dancefloor. I selected a leather-topped bar stool, and dropped myself into it. The bartender, now grinding a tea-towel into an empty shot-glass, noticed my arrival.

"You were gone a while," he commented, placing the glass on the counter. "Thought you'd resigned."

"Had to go to the can," I explained. "You know, duty calls." The bartender seemed to know it was a fabricated excuse, but knew not to question any further. He withdrew a bottle of Trabian whisky, and filled a shot-glass.

"Here's one on the house," he declared, sliding the shot-glass to me over the polished bar. I took the glass, and tilting my head back, downed the liquid in one swallow. I was supposed to be on a mission, naturally, but Cid wasn't going to know about a slight alcohol intake. Closing my eyes, I let the tension seep from my rubbery muscles—but only for a second. The clicking of shoe-heels on marble alerted my right ear, and I whirled around on the bar stool. _That better not be him—I've only just sat down._

Guess who it was?

I flung a 500-gil note down on the bar, which caught the bartender's puzzled eye. "I'm incontinent!" I explained, and hurled myself out the quad. The suited man just had to be nearby, and I wasn't going to let him escape—he only had to reach the car park, and he was out of there.

And when I kicked the double doors of the quad open, I suspected that he had evaded my chase. There was nothing there but transparent clouds of steam rising from the water. How he'd managed to bolt up the stairs, round the corner and out of sight without anyone intercepting him—it was impossible, surely?

The grinding of a circle into the base of my spine told me it was. Even though I wasn't facing my assailant, the unseen circle was undoubtedly the barrel of a gun.

"Kinneas," a cultured Galbadian voice stated. Not a question, a statement. He knew me, that was for certain, but how? Roughly, he grabbed my shoulder and turned me around. His cold, steel-grey eyes ran over mine, searching for any traces of fear. Well, he wasn't getting any from me—as usual, I was cool as a cucumber.

"Weapons," he insisted, gesticulating toward the inside of my blazer. Reluctantly, I reached inside the folds and produced a Beretta, and tossed it to the floor without thinking. For some reason, he didn't look at me strangely when I stopped there—he might have been highly trained, but he had no idea there was a Walther PPK in a holster down my trouser-leg. A professional should have known that. With his own gun pointed at me from arm's length—I couldn't define what make it was—he slowly paced backwards, toward the stairs.

"Oh yeah, I almost forgot," he sneered, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He crouched down, and took the Beretta in his free left hand. "Don't mind if I do?"

"Not at all," I replied, and as he averted his gaze to the second pistol, I planted a foot snugly in his abdomen. The blow made contact with something flat and hard. "Shi-----t!" I yelled, clutching the red-hot ball of pain that was my foot. Fucker was wearing some sort of body armour, probably Kevlar, which was unlucky for me. My opponent found this raucously funny, and as I was hopping around on my foot—the other one didn't even feel like a foot any more—he broke into a run, heading for the main hall of the Garden. Dismissing the pain as best I could, I rolled up my trouser leg and withdrew the blue-steel PPK.

The main hall was completely empty, the still of silence disrupted only by the relentless streams of water from the fountains, apart from a shadowy figure bounding toward the car park. Assuming a marksman's stance, gun held in two hands, I picked off a shot at the darting figure. Unfortuantely, the falloff distance took its toll, and the bullet ricocheted harmlessly into the steaming water. That shot had shaved valuable time off the chase, and I hoped I could reach the car park before he got away. The figure disappeared into the park corridor just as I sprinted past the dormitory walkway. The thunderous explosions sounding from the car park corridor told me he was eager to stop me tailing him—that was useful to me; he'd wasted time shooting back at me that he could've used to get out of the Garden. I needed no more encouragement, and soon found myself jerking to a halt at the carpark entrance.

Cars had filed into the marked spaces on the grey asphalt, leaving me with little peripheral vision. He could be hiding behind any one of them, and I would be none the wiser. But he practically sent up a signal flare when a gunshot sounded from behind a red sports-car. I dove to my right, behind a black saloon car, and the round ripped through plaster just inches from my outstretched feet. As I neared the end of my dive, I turned it into a combat roll, and crouched behind the back door of the saloon. I didn't want to be too near the engine, in case he got any cute ideas. Bullets hammered into the exposed side of the vehicle, accompanied by the denting of steel, but the bullets weren't powerful enough to come out my side. The Galbadian seemed to realise this too, and his gunfire eased out. The heel-clicking resumed, this time on asphalt. He knew where I'd gone...

"If you come round here, you think I'd hesitate to kill you?" I shouted, hoping to defer his intentions. A manic chuckle sounded from the other side of the saloon-

-and the next thing I knew, a pair of dazzlingly bright, blue halogen headlights erupted in the confines of the car park. A battered blue van, its mottled bodywork buffeted by salty ocean breeze, screeched to a halt as the owner slammed the brakes down, realising someone was directly in his path. The Galbadian, dazzled by the lights, threw up his hands to deflect their glare, but to little avail. The lights eventually dipped, though, and the driver stuck his head out the window.

"What the hell are ya doing!" he yelled. "You wanna get killed or—"

"Get outta the damn car!" the Galbadian burst in, firing off a shot at the exposed windshield. The bullet made a crystalline, web-like crack in the reinforced plate-glass, which made the driver throw his hands up in surrender. He slowly reached for the door handle, and before he was halfway there, the Galbadian grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and hurled him to the ground. As a last gesture of kindness, he fired one more shot, this time at the master electricity switch. It fizzed and crackled with a discharge of energy, then all the lights cut off, leaving the Garden in darkness.

_Shit, I don't have night-vision!_ I thought desperately. _I should have listened to Mom—she was right about eating carrots. _The blue van whirled round in a reverse U-turn, then bolted out the exit as the Galbadian mashed his foot into the gas pedal. I could see it careening round the pathway as he made his escape.

Fortunately, the owner of the saloon had—somewhat carelessly—left their vehicle unlocked. I knew from past experience how to hot-wire a car, and it wasn't long before I was swerving round the bends of the road in hot pursuit. He was a few hundred yards ahead of me, taking the path to Balamb, and under normal circumstances a pursuer wouldn't have been able to stop him from moving.

But I'm Irvine Kinneas, and these weren't normal circumstances.

My speedometer was rising rapidly, the orange needle juddering toward the white 90 marker. I shifted gears, still keeping my well-trained eye on his progress. He was merely two red squares in a blanket of navy-blue darkness. A slower vehicle appeared in front of us out of the darkness, and somehow we evaded it in opposite directions, doing a slalom round the red hatch, returning to the road just in time to avoid head on contact with another passing vehicle. As we hit a long stretch of road, I pointed the PPK out of the open window, aiming in the general direction of my foe. He wasn't that good—a well-trained professional would have tried evasive manoeuvres to stop anyone firing at him, but without them he was an easy target. I squeezed the trigger, and the shot impacted in the left rear tire, sending a burst of fragmented rubber chunks into the grass. The truck he was driving erratically swerved to the side, and he ground down on the brakes, producing sparks from the shattered back tire. I rotated the steering wheel to the right, and slammed my own brake pedal to the floor. The black saloon careened to a stop just a few feet from the side of my opponent's vehicle. He was already out of his; and was sprinting toward a nearby copse, pistol in hand.

As I found my way into a forest usually inhabited by T-Rexaurs, PPK in hand, the night air fell unearthly silent. If my foe was here, he'd stopped moving. Whether that was to throw me off the scent or to hide, I wasn't any the wiser.

A snap. Someone stepping on a twig, unaware of impending danger. Realising he'd alerted me, the Galbadian uttered a muffled curse, and tried to take another route through the forest. The rustling of leaves and branches was simply too obvious, and I trailed him through noise detection. Every step seemed to throw up more carpets of foliage, every step bringing me that much closer.

Seemingly out of nowhere, a whizzing black object missed the edge of my arm by a fraction of an inch, accompanied by an explosion. The light from the muzzle flash illuminated the forest, revealing every possible hiding place.

Big mistake.

With my gun-arm outstretched, I switched the PPK to semi-auto, and fired three quick rounds. A dark-shrouded figure near a fork in the forest path was flung to the ground, as if he had tripped over a rock. He desperately tried to scramble to his feet, but my foot was already pressing his right arm to the ground. Somehow, in an idiotic move, he'd left my Beretta behind—ironically, the weapon he could've used to kill me could cost him his own life.

"Don't mind if I do," I smirked. I kicked his pistol out of his hand, and it spun across the dusty ground. "Got any other weapons I don't know about?"

"No," he spat. He ground his teeth in agony; the well-aimed shot had drilled into a muscle just above the ankle, making getaway a statistical impossibility. I crouched into a squat, my PPK now clutched loosely; it wouldn't matter much if I wasn't on the defensive.

"So," I said jovially, "talking time. Why were you at the Garden festival? What's in it to interest you?"

The Galbadian's eyes narrowed, his stainless-steel glare focused darkly on me. "Oh, Kinneas. I would have expected more from you. After all that training we did together, I thought you'd know me well enough to know how I take my coffee."

And then, like flipping through a yellowing photo album, the memories flooded back, outlined in dull monochrome.

"What's the target distance?" I asked, my right eye cupped to the telescope. I'd soaked it in eye drops, to keep it alert and to stop me from squinting unnecessarily. Dangers turned his attention away from his rifle, the sun gleaming off his perfectly pearl-white teeth.

"_Remember what I told you, Kinneas?" Dangers had an annoying habit of referring to me by last name, a trait I thought only dull lecturers possessed. "If you can see them clearly, zoom's at five hundred metres. And looking at the way your rifle's set up, your scope's only magnified twenty times." Instinctively, I placed my eye back in the lenspiece. Amazing. He was exactly right._

"_Watch and learn, Kinneas. Watch and learn." The blue sighting beam of his rifle tracked a Jelleye, hovering around the rusty plains surrounding Galbadia Garden. It flitted in and out of red rock formations, but never escaped the blue spot. Completely unaware of Dangers' bead on it, the Jelleye began to drift too slowly toward the cliff we were crouching on. Dangers tightened his grip on the rifle, as if to ensure me that he was still controlling it. As the blue beam passed over one of the Jelleye's three eyes, it stopped, simply floating above the desert. It was the last mistake the creature would ever make. _

_The snap of a rifle round being expended reverberated from the canyon walls, rolling around and phasing out before finally dissipating. Dangers smugly unseated the rifle from the bipod, and began deconstructing it, his hands moving over the rifle's components with a responsive elegance. An untrained observer could have been forgiven for thinking the Jelleye was never a creature at all, so precise was Dangers' single shot. My shooting partner faced me with his plastered grin, the rifle now encased in a duffel bag._

"_As they always say, learn from the best."_

Waylon Dangers. Sharpshooter extraordinaire, Triple Triad expert and consummate ladies' man. I was unfazed in my jealousy of him; although I never regarded him as a friend, he seemed to embody everything I'd ever wanted to be. But now, as I tilted my head toward the coastline, the protege had outwitted the master. I stood up slowly, rising from my haunches, and turned to face the sea.

"You see, I've learnt a few things since we last met. I'm SeeD; you're an unambitious dropout. Okay, so you made it into the G-Army, but I've got purpose for my skills."

"But there's one thing you haven't mastered." _Click._ "Never turn your back on an armed man."

Somehow, my nemesis had managed to stand up and retrieve the gun I thought I'd kicked to a safe distance. I was always one to make premature assumptions. _Irvine, you idiot. You never learn, do you?_

_Shut up, conscience, _I told it. I whirled around, hand inside my blazer, and suddenly my left hand produced an enormous .50 Desert Eagle—which Dangers didn't even now I had. Before he'd even registered my new firearm, the muzzles of both pistols produced tongues of flame, the cannonlike explosion of the Desert Eagle drowning out that of the timid PPK. Dangers flew backward like a ragdoll tossed aside, red holes in his chest soaking his uniform with blood. He collapsed to the ground. As he was lying there, eyes tearing, I stood over him with both handguns aimed directly at his face.

"If there's one thing I learnt from you," I said, "it's from Triple Triad. Never let your opponent see your trump card."

---------------

By now, Balamb Garden had reached curfew, so there was no need to call the technicians—the lights weren't desperately needed. In fact, it added to the atmosphere somewhat in the Disciplinary sector, where our other guest was securely restrained. The chamber was dimly lit in dark red by the emergency strip-lighting, powered by the Garden's main engines. Upon waking up and learning of his compatriot's demise, the other man had been only too willing to talk, especially if it negated the need for legal action.

"Now," Cid said to the man. "I think you know what's brought you here. You were a mere pawn, weren't you? Dangers had you on a leash from the start, and you knew non-compliance wouldn't be to your advantage. But now he's out of the picture, you've got a whole lot to say. Right?"

The Galbadian looked perplexed, as if he had a million things to say, but didn't know how to put the first one in words. Cid didn't take his eyes away.

"What were you doing here?" he inquired. "Surely you've got a reason. Did Dangers force you into this?"

"Yeah, I don't think he came along for the music," I snickered. No one laughed.

"Oh, come on," Cid reprimanded, in the tone of a father teaching his son one of life's valuable lessons. "We know you couldn't have masterminded this all by yourself. At least you could tell us why you're here."

"It was... it was an assassination." Forcing the words out of his mouth seemed to take a great burden off his shoulders. "The President."

"Who, Edea?" Cid demanded. The man weakly nodded his head, then relaxed, as if that nod had dried up his last energy resources. The man seemed to have drifted off to sleep, so Cid instructed the Faculties to watch him for the night, and we trooped toward the elevator. Luckily, that was also powered by the engines. Once we reached the first floor, I stepped out of the elevator. Cid tilted his head, giving me his ruminating look. The interrogation had given him plenty to think about.

"Irvine, I want to explore this situation in a bit more detail, so I'd like you to come to my office tomorrow morning. I may need you for some more assignments. For now, you're dismissed. Go and get some rest." The doors slid closed with a whirring sound, concealing the headmaster and his Faculties.

I discovered when I walked into the pitch-black dorm that I had it all to myself. There was a piece of crumpled notepaper on the table, writing scrawled messily in blue ink. From what I could read in the moonlight streaming in through the blinds, Zack had gone to see his parents in Winhill, and wouldn't return for at least a week. Too tired even to undress, I took one look at the glowing harbour lights of Balamb, before dropping wearily onto my bed, still clothed. I lay backward, staring up at the dorm ceiling. What would people think of me, now I'd killed someone in cold blood? Selphie, Quistis, Zell—surely they'd all regard me as a heartless murderer.

Too many thoughts crept into my mind at once, and I crashed into sleep before I could count them all.

--------------

For the first time in months, I dreamt of Galbadia Garden that night. I don't know why, but thinking of it brought back good memories, careless memories, of flirting, playing cards with friends and, erm, getting a day in the Disciplinary level for not doing six weeks of homework. All I'd got since my transfer to Balamb was masses of bullshit. Even my own so-called girlfriend didn't want anything to do with me. These thoughts somehow found their way into my dreams as well, resulting in a fitful night's sleep and me waking up to a mass of quilts when I awoke.

I began to feel a bit more human after a shower, and a change into my traditional outfit—a long, light brown trenchcoat and similarly coloured trousers, replete with my dark brown cowboy hat. So it was that I found myself seated in a plush red armchair in Cid's spacious office, twirling the hat absently round a finger. The gentle whirring told me the Garden was moving, and through the panoramic windows bordering Cid's office, sparkling azure ocean was the only thing in sight.

"Now, Irvine," Cid began in his patriarchal tone. "It looks like we've got a mission lined up for you. A client in Timber has contacted us with information regarding a rogue agent."

"Who's he working for?"

"Can't say quite yet. All we know is, this is an out-and-out assassination mission, weapons and equipment OSP. They've provided you with the locations of the equipment." He brought up a map of Timber on an overhead display, and a red circle pinpointed a location in the city's monorail district. An unsuspecting house, probably one of those you could spot from down by the pub, their brown roofs arched upward steeply. Cid then handed me a thick wallet across the table, most likely a contract and target information.

"Irvine, the client says you are to go into Timber and assassinate the target, using only the weapon provided. No collateral damage if possible, just the target. Complete mission and return to Garden by 2000 hours. Any questions about this assignment?"

"Yeah," I replied, sitting bolt upright. "What are you gonna do about yesterday's events? You can't just let that whole thing drop."

"The case is closed, Irvine," Cid said wearily. "There's nothing we can do about it right now. Those people were obviously ex-G-Army dissidents, looking to take revenge on her. Nothing more than a payback mission."

"But sir," I interjected, "Dangers had a DY 357 FX. Gold-plated. Those things cost more than a 20 rank SeeD makes in a month."

"Look, just cause he's a little better off that most, we've got no reason to suspect him. If we make an investigation while holding the other one prisoner, we could run into trouble. Regarding international treaties, mostly."

"Fuck international treaties!" I exploded. "You can't just leave this! Aren't you even a little bit suspicious? For all we know, he could've been laundering money to get that weapon, or he might be a member of the Galbadian government, a traitor in their ranks. We've got to act now!"

"As I already said, the case is closed." As I was about to interrupt again, he raised an admonishing index finger. "It's closed, Irvine. Now get on with your mission. We'll discuss this later."

----------------

Timber was known to many as the "locomotive town". It was easy to see why; the town was littered with trainyards, and had four different trains covering different exit points of the town, which were frequently weaving in and out of the town centre. The town was essentially a relic of the industrial era, its boundaries clouded with countless identical houses, reams of brown and grey stretching as far as the eye could see. Usually, the centre of the town was a bustling hive of activity, with shoppers frantically rushing around trying to find the thing they wanted before the retailers closed. As opposed to Balamb's chalky purple-bluish hue, Timber was from a distance a blur of green, grey and blue, as green roadways merged with the trainlines. The enormous, widescreen spectre of the TV station loomed large over the town, casting long shadows over the shopping districts once the sun was out. Unlike the beach town's relaxed, laid-back approach to life, Timber was infused with an unquestionable aura of rapidity.

From the cramped interior of my rented car, I passed under the bridge-like structure which held the infinitely revolving ship-wheel. Sure enough, my target destination was a standard house in the gritty heart of Timber, and I soon found myself ditching the car somewhere near Timber Maniacs.

When I got to the mahogany-coloured door, I was about to knock, when I realised there were no inhabitants. I lifted the doormat at my feet, and a glinting silver object was concealed beneath. The key, obviously. The interior had me lost for words—tattered, ugly green carpet with gold patterns embroidered on, ripped magnolia wallpaper, and a fingerprint-smeared window which showed a great view of the Timber Maniacs building. I headed up to the master bedroom, as that was always the best vantage point. A briefcase was laid out on the unmade double-bed, and I opened it to find a sleek, black customised version of the W2000, deconstructed and held in grey foam. Carefully, I extracted each part from the foam, sliding each piece into place, and slapping the bulbous green-lensed scope to the top. Rifle complete, I threw one of the windows open and placed my rifle on the window sill. From my post, I could draw a bead on almost any human in the city, and the pathway which forked down to the pub and the East Academy trainline was directly in the centre of my cross-hairs.

I knew precious little about my target, as the files revealed as much about him as Squall would've been able to tell me. Evidently, whoever the employer was, they didn't want anyone to find out what they were doing, or who was on the receiving end of it. But I knew enough about his appearance to know the man who turned up at about half-past-one was the one I was looking for. He must have known there'd be people gunning for him; he paced about unrelentingly, often sitting on the bench, standing up, sitting down again, walking about the path. As I watched him in the orange targeting reticle, I jotted brief notes in a pad I had taken with me for good measure.

Target is right-handed.

_Target smokes a lot._

_He is about five-eight, brown hair, medium build._

_Never seems to sit still._

_Has a Taurus PT-52 in his pocket._

_Looks like an idiot. _

I'd begun to get bored of his endless walking about, so you can probably imagine my relief when, at about quarter to three, a man turned up, wearing an impeccably pressed uniform. A SeeD uniform, in the dark blues of Galbadia Garden.

_What the hell's goin' on?_

Their five-minute meeting was not audible to me, but as it went on, the main target seemed to relax ever so slightly. Eventually, the other man disappeared down the pathway to the East Academy trainline, and I was free to take out the target. His pacing had now stopped, and he was standing over the railing of the pathway, gazing toward the trainyard. He stood still...

..._now!_

Following the trigger squeeze, the rifle bucked ever so slightly, the recoil absorbed by the modifications. A few hundred yards away, on the pathway, the man's head snapped backward, erupting in a cloud of pink mist. Horrified onlookers gazed toward the scene, and if any of them had been quick enough, they might have seen me withdraw the custom rifle. But no one seemed to acknowledge my location. Knowing my time was limited, I swiftly broke the rifle down into its disassembled form, inserting each one into the correct slot in the briefcase. That done, I hurled down the stairs and out the still-open front door.

I had a problem. Although I'd carried out the mission, it had piqued my inquisitive interest. The SeeD from Galbadia Garden—what was his purpose? Somehow, I had a new objective, and I wasn't going to rest until I found the SeeD's purpose. I couldn't afford to ignore it—it could be a mere cog in a much larger machination. But for now, I had to get out of the town.

The monorail was seething with passengers, as it always was. Even when the town wasn't in the midst of rush hour, everyone seemed to be moving from station to station. Luckily, I managed to find a vacant space in one of the red cabs, and stood up using the post as support. The cab was still filled to capacity, mothers filing into seats with their children and shopping bags in tow; businessmen clutching leather briefcases. My briefcase was very well-considered—I blended in pretty well with the rest of the crowd, only my cowboy hat standing out.

For a while, the monorail journey passed without incident. But once we had passed a couple of stations, and were in the longest stretch of rail, I noticed people shuffling through the thronging crowd. Ordinary people, so to speak, but they had hands inside their jackets, keeping something hidden from the unaware onlookers. And there was only one thing they'd possibly want to hide.

As quickly as I could, I wove in and out of posts and passengers, muttering excuses as I went. As I passed through, heading for the door to the next carriage, there was a muffled spit, and warm liquid splattered across my face and neck. The marksmen, aiming for my head, had accidentally exterminated an innocent bystander. I cast a gaze over my shoulder, and saw the suited men advancing toward me, pistols clenched tightly. The guns were silenced, and looked like Beretta 92s—the type I carried. The cab erupted into anarchy, as the other civilians saw the downed passenger, blood leaking from an open wound behind his ear. _Motherfucker! _They'd just killed an innocent, without blinking. Surely they wouldn't hesitate to kill me here and now.

The bastards had thought out the plan impeccably, as the long stretch of rail meant that we woudln't stop for at least twenty minutes. Certainly enough time to dispose of me. But I had other ideas. The emergency exit was a feew feet in front of me, and I crashed my shoulder into it in a barge. The hatch detached from the carriage and ripped away into the city streets. The howling wind whipped my face, almost detaching my hat from my well-maintained hair. Just as I placed a hand on each side of the exit hatch, I heard metallic footsteps, signifying that the marksmen had located me.

"It's no use running, SeeD," one of them said. A thick, Estharian accent, with less emphasis on the "s". "You're cornered." Just as I was about to turn round, a district of closely-packed houses came into view, no less than a few feet below. Timber Maniacs was no more than a few feet away!

And a gun barrel placed against the back of my skull, cold and unforgiving, a silencer threaded to the end. "There's no way out."

"That's what you think," I retorted. Without a second thought, I hurled myself into the city air, seeing the roof of Timber Maniacs below me. A guttural cry of "Kill that son of a bitch!" followed me from the emrgency exit, and silencer coughs sounded behind me. I landed on the roof and did a comnat roll, to take the momentum out of my impact. As I did so, more rounds splattered into the roof, sparks erupting by my feet. As I came to the edge of the roof, the street just below me, I hesitated for a split-second too long, giving the marksmen a perfect opportunity. A Beretta round rocketed into my exposed shoulder, slamming in with a spray of blood. In fact, the shot caught me off guard, and with all doubt forgotten, I hopped off the roof. By the time I reached the ground, the red-and-silver train was too far away for the hitmen to get a decent aim, and I wasn't going to wait for them to come back. Heading for the darkened navy-blue of the Deling City line, I rounded the corner into the alley. The grey pathway was cutoff from the street, littered with cardboard boxes, drained bottles and discarded newspaper.

Just as I turned into the alleyway that led to the Aphrora pub, a black shadow crashed into my temple, impacting with a crunching blow that had me reeling. For the last few seconds of consciousness, I was able to ascertain that it was a pulse rifle of some sort, with an orb launcher slung underneath the barrel.

It was the last thing I knew before I crumpled into blackness.

-------------

Phew, that took a while, but it's finally out. Hey, that chapter was really fun to write! I've been looking forward to doing an action-packed chapter like that for a while, but I needed to get plot details down.

Anyway, Chapter 6 will be up pretty soon. Got any questions? Criticisms? Praise? Just click the "Go" button below.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

_The low-slung, whitewashed terraces of Balamb glowed a fierce orange, as tongues of flame from charred shops billowed smoke into the night sky. From a distance, the beach-town radiated with a hue similar to the wick of a burning candle, flickering infinitesimally whenever a breeze fanned the furnace. The curved structure of the junk shop, usually a reassuring salt-stained grey framed by the hanging plants, was no more than a mass of blackened leaves and concrete, and fire rose from shattered house windows. _

_From where I was standing just outside the front door of my childhood home, the furious inferno raged as far as the eye could see, past the dark cylinder of the Balamb Hotel to the black sea in the harbour. My hometown burned with unrelenting abandon, the scene like an indescribable nightmare from the darkest recesses of the mind. My heart jackhammered against my cold chest; having only just woken from sleep, I remained rooted to the spot on the steps to my house in a daze, hardly able to believe the scene unfolding in front of me—villagers staggering from the remnants of their houses, choked as I was by the thick, powerful smoke. The fact that anyone would want to do this to my hometown was almost incomprehensible, as Balamb was nothing more than a tourist location to travellers from the West._

_A few hundred yards ahead, in the smoke-shrouded town centre, Civil Protection Officers drafted in from Galbadia wrestled panicking citizens away from the blazing gift shops and the ticket booth outside the train station. Near the booth, two officers emerged from the charred skeleton of a café, carrying a dishevelled, badly burnt figure, supporting his limp form rather than hauling it away from the wreckage. The figure collapsed to the cobbled road in a heap, coughing mightily as more plumes of smoke followed him from the destroyed shop. He cast his weakened glare toward the heavens, as if to ask the gods why they wreaked this horrific vengeance on him for something he thought he'd gotten away from. And in his last movement, he brought his eyes down in a final expulsion of energy, letting their dying gaze rest on one thing._

_Me. His son._

_As I ran toward my dying father, shouts of "Stop the kid! Get him away from the fire!" echoed around me, but the citizens couldn't do anything to hold me back. I dropped to my knees as I reached his ragged body, grabbing handfuls of his jacket in the vain hope that he might summon his last reserves of energy and come round, pulling himself to his feet as he battled the onset of death. But it never happened. He simply lay stretchered on the road with his eyes fixed on my face, where tears rolled uncontrollably. He finally managed to place his hands on my night-shirt, not grabbing it but emphasising his hands' presence, and forced the last sentence out of his mouth._

"_Whoever did this, promise me you'll return the favour."_

_Without really thinking, I replied. "Okay, Dad. I promise." He let his grip loosen, then simply slipped away like the receding wash of a tide. I buried my face in his jacket, somehow wishing that I'd take my head away and discover that I'd imagined the whole thing._

_But every time I did, the scene remained the same. And it was then that I realised: I wouldn't rest until I'd paid my dues. Normally, I wouldn't have taken such an aggressive stance, but this meant more to me. Whoever was responsible for this, they'd changed my life irreversibly, beyond what emotional repair and recovery could change._

_And for that, they would pay._

---------------------

"Hey, looks like he's still alive."

"Yeah, I can see that, numbnuts. How hard d'ya think I hit him? Can someone get me some cold water or something?"

"You think that wound will be okay? Looks pretty bad."

"Don't worry about it. It's only a knock."

Voices, fragments of conversation wormed their way into my subconscious, tunnelling into my mind with a sharp fury, every syllable making my head pound. To be honest, I had a bad fucking headache, and some uptight asshole talking nonsense in my ear wasn't my idea of an effective cure. Coupled with that, I'd been knocked unconscious, something I hated. You have no control of your situation, anyone can do anything they want with you, and it makes you look weak, like "Look at this wet rag, I didn't even hit him that hard!" As I came round, light flooded in from the corner of my eye from a strip-light overhead, a thick bar of white light illuminating what seemed like the interior of a train carriage; I could tell from the corrugated steel floor, cramped space and the sliding doors to my right. The place where I'd been hit with the pulse rifle was just a throbbing scrim. Self-consciously, I placed a hand on top of my head to adjust my hat, only to feel coarse hair.

"Where's my hat?" I blurted stupidly. Great. Perfect way to make a first impression—come out with something stupid like that. Luckily, whoever was accompanying me was in an amicable mood, and a hand with my hat in it was thrust into view. Gratefully, I took the hat and secured it on top of my head.

"Where am I?" I asked, knowing that I'd got the greeting right at the second time of asking. The figure squatting next to my prone form grinned, as though I'd asked just the right question. He was about the same age as me, clad in grey cargo pants and a dark blue fleece, and had a thick crop of black hair which lay flat on his head.

"Well, look at this!" he exclaimed. "A SeeD, and for free! Christmas sure has come early this year… But that's good old Timber for you, right?" He chuckled mirthfully at his own observation, which I have to agree was quite accurate, but irritating all the same. _Stupid hick-towns. _

"Look, are you going to tell me what I'm doing lying on the floor of a train somewhere outside Timber, not knowing where the hell I am or how I got here, surrounded by some half-witted hillbillies who seem to enjoy telling me nothing useful? Or do I have to find out myself?" The man flinched as if he'd spotted a blitzball flying hazardously toward his face.

"Are you angry?" he stammered. _Oh pu-lease. What is it with these people?_

"No…" I sighed resignedly. "Look, I'm supposed to be returning to Garden right now. I'm here on a mission, and objectives say I've got to return to base once the mission's been carried out. Which it has. So what I'm wondering is why I'm here. Any useful information?"

"Well, looks like I bashed you up pretty bad," he stated. No shit. My temple felt like someone had gone ten rounds with it. "Sorry about that. Anyway, let me introduce myself. Although I'm famous around here, a Balamb rube like yourself might not recognise me—Timber doesn't share much information with the outside world, as you know. I'm Zone, leader of the Forest Owls resistance movement. We're fighting for the independence of our great city, through thick and thin." He offered a hand, and I shook it. _At last; I thought you'd never say anything useful._

"You know that alley way you were heading down? Well, we were on patrol down there, mostly looking out for Galbadian troops, just in case they're looking to cause some trouble. We try to keep the streets as safe as possible."

"So how many Galbadians go down alleyways?" I inquired sceptically. For some reason, there was an image of a G-Soldier hurrying down one of those pathways, eventually finding refuge in a pile of cardboard boxes. Alleyways prove useful for urination purposes, believe me. Anyway, Zone flinched again as if the invisible blitzball had returned for another attack.

"Aaaaah… You'd be surprised how many of them go down those back roads," he claimed. Yeah right. Some freedom fighter he was; I doubted if he could fight for the independence of his own bathroom, let alone a Galbadia-ruled city. A few yards away, an electric door ground aside—clearly the best this ragtag bunch could afford—and a pot-bellied man about the same age as Zone clad in a yellow polo shirt and dungarees came down clutching a bowl of water. I allowed myself a private laugh—the man's costume wasn't exactly flattering, and he looked ungainly and inept in every action. Zone looked annoyed with the other man, and rose from his crouch in a swift motion while dismissing his partner with a flick of his wrist.

"About fuckin' time!" he barked. "How many times have I told ya, stop wasting time with that stupid train model! That's why Timber's got a gift shop!"

"But sir, the princess isn't here, so someone's gotta take her place. Making crappy train models is my speciality, sir!" he declared, snapping off a tidy salute. This whole arrangement seemed laughably stupid; in fact, it recalled horrible memories of the Christmas pantomime at Galbadia Garden, where I stuffed myself to the point of insanity with sweets from an aisle-to-aisle vendor.

"Oh pu-LEASE!" Zone raged, almost knocking the bowl aside with his flailing hands. "Look, let's just sort this guy out, okay? You got his identification papers?"

"Right here, sir!" the other man replied with a tremendous vivacity, thrusting a handful of papers and a passcard into Zone's hand. I immediately realised that I wasn't wearing my trenchcoat, and whoever had taken it off me had checked the pockets for anything they could claim for themselves. Seemed like the Timber people were scavengers, too. When the second man handed back my clutch of possessions, after clumsily tossing the bowl onto a nearby table, I recognised the eager hand as the one that returned my hat earlier.

"You got my coat somewhere?" I asked, shooting him a glance to accompany it which said: _If you've done anything with it… _Luckily, this man was in some sort of hyperactive mode, and he obediently blundered through the sliding door. Zone sighed in resignation, one hand glued to his forehead, then turned to me again. It seemed as if he could never stop smirking.

"You're a very vain person, Mr. Kinneas," Zone smiled. God, he was doing that refer-to-me-by-second-name habit, the bastard. "First a hat, then a coat. What will you ask for next?" _Oh, screw off. The sooner I get out of here and back to Garden, the better. _

"Look, not meaning to abuse your hospitality, but I don't have time for a lesson in punctuality and the finer points of model trains. So if you don't mind, I'm leaving this train as soon as I get my coat back. And don't expect me back in a hurry." Zone, though, flinched almost imperceptibly, the imaginary blitzball seeming to graze his ear slightly as it rocketed past his head. He seemed to have some sort of allergic reaction to shouting.

"Two things, Kinneas." _Please, stop calling me by second name! _"First, in case you didn't notice, we're currently on a train moving at almost a hundred miles an hour through the plains of Timber. Secondly, no-one's going in or out of the city, because those Galbadians have closed down all entrances. They're running a security check on the place."

"What for?"

"Didn't you hear what happened earlier on? Some guy was shot dead, right in the middle of the city in broad daylight. Looked like a political assassination of some sort. They aren't sure who did it yet—no sources or anything, no trails leftover." _Fuck, that's me they're looking for! If only these guys knew they were keeping the assassin hidden…_

In a sudden gesture, I started pogoing up and down on the spot, to signal my impatience. "You got a toilet in this place? I've really gotta go."

"Down the end, first door on the right." I could not wait to get out of that room, trenchcoat or not. The bathroom was pretty obvious—one of those typical steel cubicle doors with a symbol on it to identify which gender should be using it. Didn't matter which bathroom I was in right now, as I didn't need to go at all; I just had to get off that train. As soon as the door was locked, I put the toilet seat down and begun scanning the cubicle for any exit points. Unfortunately, the cubicle was to all intents and purposes a shed, with only a tiny air vent directly overhead providing some sort of air. And judging by its size, I wasn't going to be escaping through it.

Although these Forest Owls were too inept to pose any real threat, while I was on their train I was essentially a prisoner. The only way I was getting out of there was if I turned myself in, or went out in a bodybag. And I wasn't particularly interested in either.

----------------------

An hour or so later, I was cramped into a briefing room deep in the bowels of the train, surrounded by a half-dozen other faction members. Someone had been kind enough to make me a cup of coffee—that pulse rifle knock was aching like a bastard—and I was now wrapped up in my trenchcoat, much to my approval. Their briefing room consisted of a few windows covered with blinds, a full-length table with an immensely detailed map of the city, and a few crates holding weaponry and ammunition littered around the floor and the cupboards at the end of the room. Zone and the other man, who I'd been told was called Watts, seemed to be outlining the assassin's possible route through the city, along with a few projected means of attack and contingency plans. It was all a load of crap, of course.

"Watts tells me the killer probably took his shot from somewhere in the shopping district," Zone confirmed, indicating the area with a circling finger.

"Some information from my trusted sources, sir!" Watts enthused. He obviously enjoyed his job.

"The weapon used had to be some sort of rifle, perhaps an M195 anti-vehicular Galbadian sniper, to kill him dead in one shot from that distance." I found the Timberans' way of talking particularly grating. _Kill him dead? It's bad enough to kill him, but to actually kill him dead… _"He could have taken the shot from somewhere behind the Timber Hotel," he continued, emphasising his words with another finger rotation. At the same time, I took a long swig of my coffee, never more grateful for the thick, pungent taste. "If anything, he would have taken his shot from an abandoned house; if anything else, it would have been from this one-" –another finger rotation- "-just behind the hotel."

"Very good," I praised him, putting my hands together in mock applause. "However, you've overlooked one minor detail: there's no fucking way anyone could kill him from that distance. We're talking a half-kilometre or so from the target distance, and only an MSG-90 could take someone out from there. And those rifles aren't even in production yet." The Timber Owls glanced at me as if I'd just insulted their country. They had no idea what I was talking about, and what's more, they wondered how I knew it in the first place.

"Just trust me on this, okay? I've been a sharpshooter for what, nine years? I think I'd be able to make a better assumption about this than someone who runs the gift shop. Okay, I admit, it's got to be a sniper of some sort, but anyone can make an uneducated guess about that." Immediately, Zone fell to his haunches, gripping his stomach in pain. The invisible blitzball had finally made contact!

"Ouuuuuuuch," he moaned. "My stomach!" I threw a glance toward Watts, this time saying: _Where the hell did you get that guy?_

"Uh… Gathering BAD information is my speciality, sir!" Watts proclaimed again, raising his hand in that neat salute. It was enough to raise a smile, even considering the laughable nature of the situation. Watts moved toward the table, and indicated a cluster of trees in a nearby forest, seemingly having taken over the post from Zone.

"We're going to set up camp here. As you know, there's no way any of us are going back into the city, so make sure you've got everything you need." By the looks of things, I'd have to get used to these Timberans—I wasn't going anywhere in a hurry. Frowning intently, I placed my now-drained mug onto the table, furiously racking my brains for the applicable Garden rule.

_Code 9:8; in case of emergency, something something something. _

I slapped my forehead with an open palm. You know, I knew I should have read the code of conduct in more detail.

--------------------

Over the next few days, I got to know the resistance faction better, as I spent most of the days accompanying them through their assignments and journeys, and we often visited a travelling salesman just outside the city to stock up. They'd been kind enough to arrange me a bedroom, and it wasn't a bad one either; the bed wasn't too uncomfortable, there was plenty of storage space in the cupboards and there was a dresser tucked away in the corner, where I stashed any incriminating material. The Owls had recovered the briefcase I was carrying, and handed it back to me with my other belongings; luckily, the custom rifle inside was secured with locks, as I suspected the nosy bastards would have had a look through that too. The only thing I didn't like about the room was the colour scheme; the garish blend of pink carpet and bedding with antique furniture was a perverse contrast.

On the third day, the Owls decided they would eat supper outside, and prepared a barbecue on the plains. The setting sun was a ball of fire in the west, just beginning to float toward the horizon in a drift of orange cirrus clouds. One of the other Owls was tending to the food, slapping sauce on the browned meat, and the delicious aroma of barbecued ribs floated through the air. A gentle breeze ruffled the long grass, picking up occasionally with a prolonged gust. I was lounging in a deckchair, my arms wrapped round my legs protectively, when someone placed a hand on my shoulder.

"A call for you, sir," Watts said, gesticulating with his thumb toward the train. I nodded acknowledgement and leapt off the seat, searching through my mental phonebook. Not only could I not figure out who was calling, but I was curious as to how they got the number. When I picked up the receiver in the train's cool steel interior, I was greeted with Cid's distinctive mumble.

"Ah, Irvine. Glad to see you're still among the living. I take it from the news reports that the mission was a complete success, so I'll know to trust you with missions in future. Our client talked with me yesterday, and he seemed very pleased with the outcome; as a matter of fact, he paid us a visit at Garden to personally deliver your payment."

"Sir, I don't mean to sound suspicious, but how the hell did you get this number?" I twirled the lead round absently with my finger. "I didn't think anyone knew where I'd gone."

"Oh, don't worry, you're safe with the Owls," Cid assured me. "The Owls are among my longest-serving clients, since before the Second Sorceress War. I'm actively collaborating with them to ensure Timber's independence as a state, providing them with funding and SeeDs to help them. So when I heard they'd captured you, it was quite warming." He chuckled.

"So what do you want me to do?" I asked, shrugging. "As far as I know, I'm stuck here. Aren't you going to send someone to help me out?"

"No need to worry, Irvine," Cid rumbled. "There aren't any pressing engagements here at B-Garden, so I'm entrusting you to their custody for the moment. Don't worry; they don't bite. If anything does come up, I'll keep in contact. Understood?"

"Yes sir," I agreed wearily, but the click at the other end told me he'd hung up before he'd heard me reply. Didn't bother me; I always hated long conversations, and it wasn't as if Cid was my drinking buddy. I seated the receiver back in the cradle, and headed through the train door into the cool evening breeze. From where I was standing, the food-laden table was under siege by the Owls; Zone seemed to be scooping as many ribs onto his plate as it could hold, his fingers smeared with the sauce. I made a quick resolution: _Don't let him hog all the food._

"Any problems, sir?" Watts inquired cheerfully. For all his clumsiness and bumbling nature, Watts was the most amusing member of the Forest Owls, and certainly the least xenophobic. Some of the others gave me that I'm-not-sure-about-him glare, and some of the others gave me the I-wish-he'd-bugger-off-back-to-Balamb glare, but Watts seemed like a genuinely nice guy.

"Nah," I replied, selecting a choice piece of meat and biting into it. I let the meat stay on my tongue for a while, savouring the taste; it had been a long time since I'd had food this good. The B-Garden cafeteria was good for three things: hotdogs, assholes and more hotdogs. Let's just say those who get the hotdogs get the good stuff. "Looks like I'll have to stay here for a while, as my superiors say they don't need me right now. Seems a bit strange to me…"

"That's fine," Watts confirmed. "To be honest, I'm glad to have someone sane on board. Zone can be a little… difficult sometimes." We both turned our attention to the commotion surrounding the table, where the aforementioned leader of the Owls appeared to be choking on an unchewed piece of meat. It looked uncannily like Zell.

----------------------

Another couple of days passed with little fanfare, and little or no excitement to propel them along. I spent most of my time helping the Owls with rudimentary tasks, such as cleaning, cooking and keeping the faction in order. Some Puritanical bastard assigned me to clean the toilet during the fifth day of my stay, so I spent most of my morning scrubbing dirt from the rim with one of the most useless toothbrushes I'd ever set eyes on. By the second hour of the task, I was about ready to clean it with the guy's head.

After six days had passed, the Galbadians finally eased their watertight grip on the town's entrances, and trains resumed their perpetual grind in and out of the town. The Owls' train returned to Timber via the Deling City line, and I was finally able to get out into the open air. I'd been stuck in there for far too long, with a bunch of people who I'd rather not bump into again if given the choice, and I needed to see some civilization. Whatever Cid said about me staying with the Owls, I was out of there as soon as possible, no mistake about _that._

But my escape had to be delayed for a little while longer, as the Owls had made some plans that piqued even my usual indifference. They had many other members stationed in the town and neighbouring countries, keeping their ears to Timber's underground (not literally, as that would be dangerous) and they often produced gems of information. In a world dominated by power-hungry nations like Galbadia, information was more valuable than gold, and anyone lucky enough to have it would certainly be in demand. One of these faction members happened to be the owner of Timber's hotel, a woman named Miss DeMarco, who offered vacancies to visitors from a far such as Dolletians and Galbadians. Little did these visitors know, Miss DeMarco's decidedly loquacious nature was far more than verbal diarrhoea—it was a clever ploy of sorts to learn information about her customers. As you might suspect, some of this was considerably interesting to other nations, and Miss DeMarco found herself in the situation where she knew things others would kill for.

So it was that I found myself nestled in the hotel's bar in deepest darkest Timber, accompanied by Zone and Watts, who were required to go because they were essentially her employers. It was a comfortable area warmly lit by golden light from baroque light-fittings attached to the columns dotted between tables, the other light provided by tall windows which leered down on a shopping arcade, whose shoppers in sodden slickers and anoraks darted to and fro trying to get out of the district before the rain hit the town with a renewed intensity. There was no arguing about it; Timber had its fair share of grim weekdays, and today was just one of those, the tattered, ashen clouds and fine mist of rain whipped into a frenzy of drizzle by the howling winds. We sat at one of the circular tables with Miss DeMarco at the head, the hardwood garnished with coffee mugs and ashtrays which only I was using. I'd never had much of a taste for coffee before, mainly because I could think of better drinks than hot mud, but a week of pounding headaches and sleep patterns with more peaks than a Trabian mountain range had given me something of a liking for it. I made a mental note to myself: if I ever met Zone down a dark alleyway, hit him with a pulse rifle. Hard.

"You wanted to tell us about the guest, right?" Zone prompted. Miss DeMarco took a long drag from her coffee mug, then set it down gently on the placemat.

"He was from Dollet, I think," she began. "He came in here fairly late on Sunday night, looking for somewhere to stay. Course, I offered him a room straight away. He was fairly quiet on the first night; didn't really say much or do much, spent most of the time in his room and didn't eat either. Next two days were a completely different story, though. I talked to him a lot while he was eating, as he spent a lot more time in the canteen and the bar. Anyway, the important thing is, he didn't really tell me very much. Apparently, something pretty big is going down in Dollet, and he knows more about it than he'd care to let on."

Zone fiddled with the handle of his coffee mug, wrapping his finger round it and rotating the mug with an irritating grinding sound. "So we still don't know this guy's name, or what we need to know. I guess we're back to square one. We don't have any means of tracking him either, so we're fucked."

"Don't be so pessimistic, Zone," Miss DeMarco chided. "You should know me better than that by now. Don't you remember those tracer tags you gave me a few months back?" Immediately, Zone's eyes lit up. I knew what she was talking about, as Cid had shown me them just before the Garden Festival—they were tiny tags you could attach to people's clothes which emitted a radio signal.

"You're more than just a hotel owner, aren't you, Miss DeMarco?" I praised, smiling wryly. She cast a disapproving look across the table.

"Young man, just because we've never met before, doesn't mean you shouldn't treat me like the other Owls. Call me Francesca." As a mock curtsey, I tipped my hat to her like a true gentleman, which provoked a flattered chuckle. As we stood to leave, I felt slightly embarrassed; all the rain on my coat had run down the sleeves and pooled on the floor underneath my chair. I tipped my hat one more time, than ducked out the front door into the rain-washed street.

------------------------

Instead of spending the day with the other Owls, I took this time to recuperate in one of the Timber Hotel's vacant rooms, and spent the remainder of my day cultivating my hatred. There was plenty of storage space under the bed, but given the intrusions Miss DeMarco liked to make into her guests' rooms, I wasn't leaving anything out for her to see. Those bloody Timberans—they have to stick their noses in everywhere.

At about eight o' clock that evening, Zone sent me a message on my pager, alerting me to meet him down at the Aphrora. The Desert Prison line next to the pub was the most efficient for entering and leaving the town, so it was no surprise that they wanted to meet me there. Before I left, I changed into a long black coat I'd acquired at Hampton's, the clothes outlet next door to the hotel, and fixed my hat securely onto my head.

They were already waiting for me when I got down the stairs to the pub. It was a black, moonless night, and the rain had intensified into hard, acidic strings tainted with industrial smog. As the pub was secluded in the lowest point of Timber, you could see the rows of dimly-lit houses circling the city's skyline, but on this night they were indistinguishable in the hissing torrents of rain. All I could see was drifts of smoke from the chimneys, restricted to tiny slants by the vicious wind. As I stood in front of the train line, I removed my hat for a few seconds, letting the rain soak my face and hair. Looking up into the black sky was like being in the firing line of a thousand invisible bowmen. The town centre was illuminated in a haze of turquoise neon, the restaurants and wine bars now fully accommodated, and the light generated lingered in the dark sky like aurora borealis.

"What the hell took you so long?" Zone demanded, tapping his foot in anticipation. "We've been waiting here for ages. I'd like to go home dry, thanks very much."

"Yeah, well tough shit," I told him. "In case you didn't notice, some of us have to walk." _Yeah, you frickin' whore_, I wanted to add, but decided against it.

"Got the whereabouts of our target!" Watts broke in, waving a blue-steel datapad in my face. "Seems like he's decided to come back to our fair city."

"He's been stationary for half an hour now, and we're assuming he's stopped off in a wine bar or something. Going by the green dot-" –he consulted the pad- "-he's in the Eighth Wonder." I wasn't too sorry to hear that, as that bar was run by an old girlfriend of mine from Galbadia Garden. The rain hammered down unapologetically as we made our way to the Deling City train line, where we were just in time to catch a night-tram. It was one of those you always see in Western-made movies—dull red padded seats, strip-lights and those posters advertising things no-one will ever ask about. I rejected the offer of a seat next to Zone—he fidgeted way too much for my liking—and instead propped myself on a post. The automapper beeped incessantly, occasionally increasing in volume as we passed over the Town Centre, and the green dot emitted flashing green circles to partner each beep. Eventually, after about fifteen minutes of Zone swinging his legs to and fro, the tram ground to a halt, and we braved the torrents of rain once more. It started to ease off slightly, just as we crossed the road to the restaurant-lined street, where smart-looking estate cars lined the pavement resplendent in greens and golds.

Once we entered the Eighth Wonder, the bitter chill of the night was blanketed by a warmth generated by heaters and commuters in the cheer of unity. A standard fan whirled overhead, and waitresses in red and gold dresses wove between over-populated tables delivering meals and flutes of champagne. The rich, plummy aroma of red wine permeated the small bar, coupled with waves of chatter and the occasional bellowing laugh.

"Whadda we do now?" I called over the rumble of talking. In response, Watts thrust the blue unit in my face.

"He's at the bar, apparently," he shouted in my ear. "Dunno how we're gonna get him out of here."

In order to remain inconspicuous, we secured one of the free tables tucked away in a dark corner, and ordered bottled lagers to pass the time. When the surly waitress brought the amber bottles round on a gleaming platter, I was so impatient I ignored the supplied glass and prised the cap off with my teeth. I knew you weren't supposed to do that, and I'd had an uncle who'd broken his front teeth doing it, but once wouldn't hurt.

The problem was, I downed the drink faster than my alcohol tolerance could cope with, and I soon found myself asleep with my head cradled in my free hand. Occasionally, Watts would interrupt my half-awake state with a comment about the target's movements, but for the most part I slipped in and out of a light sleep. Time passed.

Eventually, I spotted a dark flickering at the corner of my eye, and I was awake and alert before Watts was required to dig an elbow in my ribs. We shoved the chairs under without fanfare, still trying not to arouse suspicion, but the man at the bar had already noticed our movements, and made for the back door. As the wooden door swung closed, he darted out of sight having broken into a run.

"You go that way," Zone ordered, "Watts and I'll take the front." Although I found his yellow-bellied nature aggravating, I was happy to take matters into my own hands. As I knocked the back door open with my shoulder, finding myself in a dark-shrouded alleyway, I noticed ominous thunderclouds frowning down on the city, so I shrugged my coat further up my shoulders. At the end of the alley, silhouetted against waves of flashing gold neon from a casino, was the Dolletian man, already making his escape. There were no Civil Protection Officers in sight, so I took off down the alley in pursuit. I slowed down slightly when I reached the main road, and saw the man bounding down the street toward the Balamb train-line, his coat flailing wildly behind in the battering wind. He had almost reached a T-junction in the road when a blue van rocketed out in front of him, stopping him dead in his tracks. I kept on running, my shoes scuffing the rain-sodden road with squeaking sounds, but I had a feeling I'd lost this chase, as the travellers in the van were most likely his compatriots coming to bail him out. My fears were proved when one of them leapt out the sliding doors, clutching an AK-74, and the fleeing Dolletian stopped his sprint, panting for breath.

"Thought you'd never get here," the man began, his speech jerky and littered with rasping breaths. "They know I'm here, they know what's going on. It was that bitch in the hotel!" I saw a flash of concern cross the eyes of the AK man. Bafflement, perhaps?

Then, before either I or the Dolletian had a chance to register it, the AK man's left hand, which had been concealed inside his leather jacket, shot out and impacted with the man's chest, sending him reeling. He'd plunged a knife deep into the Dolletian's ribcage, and as the recognition of the searing pain dawned on him, the AK-wielding thug leapt through the sliding door, and the truck screeched in the opposite direction.

When I reached the Dolletian, I grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, and hauled him to a sitting position. "Don't worry, I'm gonna get help," I assured him. "Relax. Who are you?" The man, gasping as he drew in his final breaths, fixed his blazing eyes on me, and spoke a single word.

"_Ultima."_

And then, just as quickly as he came, he was gone.

-----------------------

I accept, I have a tendency to rush things, but once I get an idea in my head, I need to get it down on paper as soon as possible. That's one of my favourite chapters to date, as I think I got the balance between action and humorous narration just right. Also, there were a few nods to my _film noir_ fixation in this chapter, and a few more will crop up throughout, along with some Sin City references. The cars in the Timber street are meant to be like those ones in 30s Chicago.

Kudos has to go to Massive Attack, whose "Unfinished Sympathy" helped me to keep the noirish urban vibe of this chapter together. If you've never heard it before, I strongly recommend you go and find it right now. But most of all, credit has to go to my lovely reviewers. You're helping me keep this thing together!

Well, that's all for now. Adios.


	7. Chapter 7

Bloody hell, it's taken me a long time to write this one. I kind of made a start on it when I finished Chapter 6, but somehow it got shoved down to the bottom of my list of priorities.

This chapter is quite action-oriented, but it'll be the last bit of gunfire you'll get for a while. The next chapter will be much more sedate, because I need some character detail and the plot section coming up doesn't involve goons with big guns. Anyway, off with the rambling, on with the writing. Enjoy!

Chapter Seven

Military trucks encircled the rain-washed street, soldiers and officers milling around the scene with sour expressions, often taking photos, jotting in notebooks or talking curtly to reporters. The chopping sound of a helicopter's rotors could be heard overhead, and I looked upwards and saw the black outline of a Blackhawk glide past. Flashbulbs clicked, with phosphorus-white flashes and discussions over what to snap next. It had been an hour or so since the incident, which would no doubt make its way into the newspaper that ferried about the Timber Hotel on a miniature train, but as I was the only witness, I was required to stay behind and recount my story. I suppose I could have run away, but knowing the cold-hearted nature of the Galbadian investigators, I'd be looking over my shoulder until they caught up with me. The last thing I needed right now was unwanted attention, especially considering the occurrences during my missions.

Speaking of those missions, I still had plenty on my plate, fragments of information without source or meaning. Who or what was Ultima? Why were Galbadians carrying out strange transactions wherever I went? More to the point, why were Galbadians trying to cause trouble within Garden, their country's greatest yet most formidable ally? The questions and facts whirled around my head, distracting my judgment, and it resulted in me giving short, uninterested answers and undetailed accounts to Galbadian majors and journalists.

Finally, after another half-hour of dictaphones thrust into my face, the Galbadian troops dismissed me, and I began the long trudge to the hotel. I was soaked to the skin; my boots squelched with water every time I took a step, water dripped from my sodden fringe, and my black coat clung stickily to my wringing shirt. The torrential rain had evolved into a full-blown thunderstorm, illuminating the desolate streets with tongues of lightning and filling them with cracking echoes of thunder.

I was not surprised to find the hotel dark and empty when I returned, as it was long past the owners' lights-out time. I quietly made my way up to my room, which was made more difficult by the boots which squeaked and oozed water onto the floorboards. My darkened room had very few features, namely an on-suite bathroom and a dresser, but it had enough space for me and my limited needs for another day or so. I stuffed my coat in a carrier-bag, as there was no wash-basket, and I showered and shaved in the on-suite. Unfortunately, the razor was one of the bluntest I'd ever set eyes on. Every drag of the blade yanked hairs out of their roots rather than slicing cleanly through them, and after I cut a slit in an unprotected area under my chin, the shave went to hell in a flurry of blood and white foam. I must have used half a toilet roll patching myself up afterwards.

Eventually, I changed into a fresh black t-shirt and some jeans, and put on a blue-and-white checked shirt over the top. It wasn't exactly stylish, but at least it was dry. Just before I locked myself in my room, I retrieved a truly awful pie from the fridge in the hotel's storeroom, which I ate cold as I had no facilities to cook it. After another twenty minutes' deliberation, I locked the door to my room and laid my briefcases on top of the ragged throws covering my bed. In one was the customised W2000 rifle, broken down and greased, and the other held my handgun slides. Carefully, I extracted each component from the case and wordlessly clipped them into place, screwing a silencer onto the barrel of each, creating two silenced USP pistols. I lifted my pillow up and tossed one of the guns underneath, and I returned the other one to the case and stashed it in the dresser. Having done that, I finally got into bed, keeping my clothes on because the covers weren't thick enough to provide real resistance to the bitter cold.

It was still raining brutally when I clicked the standard lamp off, so much so that I couldn't see the street outside through a wash of rainwater. The rain drummed incessantly on the window panes, trickling down the glass lazily. I lay quietly for a while, just listening to the rain and gazing into a thick night sky fogged orange in the glow of street-lamps, and thought about what had happened to my life in just a few short days. I was in this mess deeper than I ever wanted to be; the inclusion of Dangers into the fray made it something of a personal issue for me, as I'd known him since we were juniors at G-Garden. As much as I disliked him, his personal vendetta against Edea was something that mystified me—as younger students, he and I shared very little interest in Galbadia's political climate, and often talked about the latest magazines during conferences in G-Garden's auditorium.

But this new name, Ultima, was something I couldn't fit into the equation. It was an unnecessary addition, and something which appeared to have no relation to any of the other facts.

Eventually, as I had done for many of the past few nights, I drifted into a light sleep fuelled by entirely too much thinking, a bad habit of mine. Although my sleep patterns changed almost every night, and sometimes caught me completely off-guard, requiring a re-shuffle of my schedule, I often caught a few hours of sleep here and there. To be honest, it didn't happen too often—I was probably a few steps short of being a full-blown insomniac.

I woke just after dawn to the sound of a cell phone ringing, emanating from the pocket of my jeans. Instinctively, my hand grasped the USP concealed beneath my pillow, but I quickly realised nobody had a gun pointed at me, so I reached into the pocket to withdraw the phone.

"Irvine Kinneas," I stated tersely, not wanting a long conversation.

"I thought I told you to stay in the company of the Forest Owls," a voice demanded on the other end of the line. It was Cid's voice.

"Yeah, I didn't like their cooking," I replied, hauling myself out of bed. I could almost hear Cid creasing his brow in thought.

"No matter," he finally declared, "it's not that important. Our client has requested assistance again, and your name was mentioned."

_This guy sure thinks a lot of me, _I thought with an optimistic warping of the mouth. "What's the deal this time?"

"Turn on the TV. You'll see." I didn't actually know there was a TV in the room, but I found the grey unit nestled in the corner, remote perched on top. I turned the volume down as low as I could while still able to hear it, but the scenes on the screen told me all I needed to know. Military trucks, the same as the ones in the street the previous night, were lined around the Missile Base in Galbadia, which had only been purged of Estharian insurgents a couple of days before. Flames engulfed the checkpoint at the main entrance, probably the result of incendiary grenades. My theory was proved correct when the camera flitted over a blackened corpse, slumped over the red-and-white-striped barrier.

"What the hell happened?" I asked in awe.

"Hostage situation. Terrorists stormed the place earlier this morning, killed most of the soldiers and took the technicians hostage. Problem is, they've got access to most of Galbadia's nuclear technology in there, and as they clearly stated in their demands, they're not afraid to use them."

"Speaking of which," I said, eyes still fixed on the images of pandemonium, "what do they want? These terrorists seem to be doing this for fun nowadays."

"No, these guys are serious." Cid paused for a second before continuing. "They want the Sorceress turned over to them."

"Who, Edea?"

"Of course."

"_Damn."_ I switched the TV off, and threw the dresser's doors open, taking out the cases with my free hand. "So what am I supposed to do about it?"

"We need you to go in there, rescue the hostages and avoid any confrontations if possible. They probably won't hesitate to launch if provoked, so use your discretion. And they've got a hostage with significant bargaining power, especially for Galbadia."

"Who?"

"I can't say, it's confidential. Strictly by the book, you hear me?"

"Yeah, I hear you," I replied, and hung up before he could reply.

Over the next few minutes, I dressed myself carefully, selecting clothing which was unlikely to make me look out of place, and I inserted the silver pistols into holsters under my coat. I could hardly believe this assignment came up when it did, as I'd only had a single night's rest—nowhere near enough to recuperate. I still had a pretty unpleasant headache, so I reached for a bottle of painkillers from the medicine cabinet. You could tell by the packaging what it was—an unremarkable white bottle with one of those ridged safety caps, which were usually almost impossible to detach from the bottle. I mouthed a small handful of the tablets, and washed them down with a gulp of rusty-tasting tapwater.

As I headed for my hotel room door to leave, the cell phone in my coat pocket emitted a low tone, signalling a call. I dug around in the deep trench of the pocket, and flipped it open with a deft flick of the wrist.

"Kinneas," I muttered. "If this isn't the most beautiful woman in the world, I'm hanging up."

"But sir!" Watts babbled enthusiastically, "we've got another assignment, and we're leaving soon. Just wanted to let you know."

"Sorry, Watts," I answered. "I'm busy today. I can't come with you."

"This is important, sir!" he insisted. Not only was his not the voice I wanted to hear, it was telling me things I didn't want to know. "Sir, haven't you been watching the news?"

"A little."

"We're going to the missile base, sir," Watts announced. "We're gonna try and sneak in somehow, cause we want to see what's happening in there." Now, as you can imagine, I was a little confused. Why would a Timber resistance faction want to investigate a terrorist activity in Galbadia—and what was in it for them? More to the point, I needed to get into the base myself, and I didn't really want them to accompany me, seeing how inept they were, but I figured I wouldn't get rid of them too easily. Resignedly, I decided to accompany them by default.

"Meet me outside the hotel in five minutes," I said curtly, then snapped the phone off.

------------------------

The journey that followed was a long and arduous trek through the dustbowl of Galbadia, walking through sand-brushed deserts and red-walled canyons. The unrelenting rain still continued, showering down from a dismal grey sky, and the sand beneath our feet was soggy and clung to my boots.

"What's the mission plan?" I asked, out of the blue. Zone, seemingly caught by surprise, threw a startled gaze toward Watts, who looked equally taken back.

"Uh… We haven't quite… worked one out yet," he managed. Almost as if he was expecting a steely stare from yours truly, he threw the hood of his blue anorak over his head. The problem with this mission was that Zone had chosen an item of clothing that made him stick out like a Shumi in the middle of a Galbadian shopping centre. _Nice one._

So it was that the rest of the journey passed without any significant events—even though I had silenced weaponry, I couldn't afford to waste precious ammo on fiends roaming the plains. They weren't enough of a threat anyway. I had stuffed the USP pistols in my belt on further consideration, although I made sure to take the safety off so I wouldn't lose anything important. We reached the base after around an hour's constant walking, an hour that made me wish we'd been able to use their train—although it was quicker and more efficient, we couldn't alert the terrorists to our position, especially given the Owls' cowardly pretensions.

"Can you see anyone from here?" Zone whispered as we crouched behind a nearby canyon cliff. Almost as a reply, Watts produced a pair of binoculars with something of a flourish, and cupped his eyes to the lenses.

"Not much happening, sir," Watts observed. "I can only see fire and dead bodies." Feeling slightly impatient, I gestured for him to pass the binoculars over, as I preferred to make my own assessment than trust the judgment of others. The binoculars were the type often favoured by big-budget Galbadian blockbusters, overlaid with a red targeting display showing statistics for elevation, wind speed and direction. I tracked the base with the intersecting red crosshairs, checking for any sign of life, but there seemed to be none. Dead Galbadian soldiers were strewn around the entrance, lying in uncomfortable heaps near the weapon inspection lobby and the solid armoured barrier to the base.

"Damn," I growled. "Who the heck would want to do a thing like this?"

"That's what we want to find out," Zone replied, gesturing for me to return the binoculars to Watts, which I did. "Thing is, Galbadian security around Timber's kind of eased off a bit since the Estharian invasion of Deling City, so I suppose this is a close-to-home issue."

"I'd hate to be the poor fool who has to think up a cover story for this," I said, frowning.

It took another few minutes to reach the weapon strip section, which, as we had ascertained previously, was unoccupied. I stepped cautiously into the booth where a soldier had collapsed over a control terminal, and I retrieved the FA-MAS assault rifle he had slung under his arm, putting my arm through the looping strap. As I stepped back out onto the tarmac, Zone regarded me with a puzzled glare.

"You think we'll need those?" he asked tentatively. In response, I slapped a magazine into the underside of the rifle with a loud _clack._

"Better be safe than sorry, right?" Zone nodded in affirmation, clearly having doubts about the mission. I assumed he'd had some sort of military training, but given his usual bumbling ineptitude, it wasn't a certainty. With that, we continued our journey toward the inside of the base, which was made much easier by a technical malfunction in the gate control system, and we halted again after a short time, just behind an army truck emblazoned with Galbadian army insignias.

"I'm looking in the back," I announced, and walked over to the back doors of the truck. Discovering they were still open, I threw them aside and surveyed the interior. The truck was riddled with bullet entry holes, and so I wasn't surprised to see dead soldiers in the back, clad in the usual blue uniforms and clutching the standard-issue magic swords. The driver had had it worst of all; a round had shattered through the glass of the windscreen, through his head and out the back of the headrest of the seat. I winced as I surveyed the scene.

Then, thinking of the Estharians in Deling City, my mind began formulating a plan. Seifer had taken on the guise of an Esthar soldier in order to infiltrate the Presidential Palace more successfully. It would be just as easy to do the same thing here…

Watts and Zone were bouncing around in frustration and impatience after the amount of time I had spent in the truck, but those stares soon turned to bafflement as I hurled a dead G-Soldier onto the tarmac.

"You think you can fit into this guy's uniform?" I asked, holding the deceased soldier by the collar of his uniform. "It'd be the best way to get inside the base."

"Do I have to?" the anorak-clad man protested. I looked up from the ground with a disparaging stare.

"You got a better idea?" No response to that question. "Good. So what are you waiting for?"

"Well, sir," Watts added, "Don't you think the terrorists have kept tabs on who they've taken out so far? Aren't all the G-Soldiers around here dead?"

"I dunno," I said. "Maybe we'll pretend to be reinforcements or backup. Better than going in as civvies, I'd say. Whatever we do in there, and however we go in, we haven't got time to have coffee thinking about it. So don't you think we ought to get on with it?"

------------------------

As per the usual arrangement, I found myself infiltrating the base alone again, as Zone and Watts had chosen the typically easier route inside—an exhaust vent near one of the outhouses. Still, with all the crawling I'd done back in Deling City, I wasn't sorry to be approaching the base from the back door. Unfortunately, and fitting my usual lack of good fortune, I was dressed in the most unenviable soldier's uniform—said soldier seemed to have an unfortunate tendency to wet himself in times of trouble.

In fact, evaluating my plan from a realistic point of view, I began to realise how badly thought out it was. Sure, Zone had been lucky enough to acquire his uniform from the guard who had been hit cleanly in the head, but the soldiers Watts and I had taken ours from had seen enough lead to start a pencil factory. I was hoping my contingency plan didn't involve the terrorists seeing me too much.

I made my way round the back of the central building quietly, using the wall as both support and concealment, so that any passing terrorists around the other side wouldn't have been able to see me. I had a suspicion, though, considering usual terrorist activities, that most of them would be inside the base guarding the hostages. I didn't rule out any other possibilities, however, as there could still have been some patrolling the outside or taking a cigarette, as they do. I made sure my FA-MAS was in reach, hand tightly around the trigger guard, and I used one hand to prop myself up as I leant round the corner. To my surprise, there was no-one about.

Rounding the corner and following the same pattern on the next wall, pressed flush against it, I aimed my assault rifle expertly at each possible entry or exit point. The base was silent. Or at least it was until I heard the crackle of static on my radio, signalling a call from my Timberan compatriots.

"What's happening?" I growled into the mouthpiece.

"_They're keepin' 'em in the main hangar," _the voice on the other end replied. _"Are you inside the base?"_

"Not yet," I cut him off. "Don't worry; I'm working on it."

"_We're gonna hang out here for a while. Tell us when you're inside." _Typical. I should have known what to expect, really. I clicked the radio off with my thumb, and stuffed it in the pocket of my uniform.

The door to the base was already open, and I quietly clicked it shut as I passed through into the base. It was a welcome respite from the showers, although there was a dismal patter of the rain on the metal of the building. Not having a keycard to rely on, I instead fished a screwdriver out of my pocket and tried to unscrew the panel, a task easier said than done, as the screwdriver in question was a flat-head one I only kept for emergencies. Eventually, after much deliberation, the panel began to detach from the wall, and I prised it away with the rectangular head of the screwdriver. I'd seen this thing on a film once, where one of the characters re-worked the wiring inside a keycard reader, or a biometric security system or something, and the door opened automatically. Thankfully, and unlike most of the other scrapes I'd had with electronics, I actually knew what I was doing – something about detaching the wire which linked the reader to the door's opening mechanism, I assumed. And with the final twist of optic wire, the door obediently shot upwards.

The Galbadian missile base was another place I'd only passed through on a previous jaunt, in the Ultimecia chapter of my life, but I at least knew enough about it to find my way through. The maze-like intersections of walkway were sprinkled with terrorists wielding FA-MAS rifles and AK-47s (or 74s, I wasn't entirely sure), and incendiary grenades hung by their pins on the greens the guards were wearing. It wasn't looking too hot.

"I'm in," I said into my radio. "You say the hostages are all in the hangar, right? The main missile storage place, yeah?"

"_That's the one," _Zone's voice confirmed, echoing inside a steel exhaust pipe.

"How d'ya get in there?" I asked. The line was quiet for a few seconds, not even punctuated by the gritty static I usually heard.

"_Don't ask me, I don't even work here," _Zone replied. How useful. Clicking my radio off again, I began to make my way toward the missile command room, careful to approach it slowly due to the army boots I was wearing, and found myself flush against another wall next to the door of the room. Unfortunately, boring as it was, an area which contained much the same sort of terrain had to be approached in the same way, meaning my actions had been recycled once again.

When I kicked the door down, however, the proverbial hell broke loose. You see, I was expecting another room full of gunned-down G-Soldiers or maybe just a few unmanned computer terminals. What I got instead was two swarthy, thick-set terrorists wearing unremarkable camouflage greens, although the cause of most consternation was the body armour and face-concealing balaclavas the pair were wearing, meaning I couldn't identify them or get a good shot off. It wouldn't stop me trying, though.

"Drop that fucking gun!" one of them screamed, tightening his grip on his AK to ensure I hadn't forgotten he was armed.

"You drop your fucking gun, asshole!" I yelled back, protruding the muzzle of the FA-MAS further in front of me as if to say, _You think YOU'RE armed, bitch?_

"Fucking drop it now!" This conversation was in need of termination, immediately. I ducked out through the door into the hallway, and almost instantly I heard the ringing of shots on metal, the AK fired at where my head had been just seconds before. I thought I heard the click of a magazine being released, and although I couldn't be too sure about it, it was the best chance I'd have in a while. Leaning round the corner just enough to see what was coming without exposing myself too much, I held down the trigger on the FA-MAS, resulting in a prolonged burst which I think struck one of the terrorists square in the chest. It wouldn't have killed him, but maybe it knocked him back a pace or so. Hearing the clumsy sound of footsteps on metal, I realised the terrorists were making a run out the other door in the room, and I sprinted into the room, my gun zeroed on one of the terrorists attempting to escape. He only turned around when it was too late, and as he saw me approaching he readied the AK with one hand. But my gun was already spitting rounds again, and this time, one of the rounds struck him just below the chin. Now unable to move, the remaining spray of bullets lifted him off his feet like a giant hand wrapping around him, flinging him carelessly against a computer terminal.

There was only one problem, and to use my favoured term, it was a fucking big one. The other terrorist in my absence had gained something of a headstart, and I knew once he was back with his comrades he wouldn't hesitate for a second to raise the alarm. Sure enough, the invasive wail of a klaxon kicked in through the speakers dotted around the base, accompanied by the dimming of strip-lights overhead to make way for flashing red ones mounted on the walls. _Well, this mission's gone to hell, _I told myself with a private sigh.

I was already prepared for the influx of movement and shouting out in the main hall, so when I heard _"Freeze!" _come from a walkway just above mine, my rifle was already angled upward to combat the speaker. But it wasn't necessary; just as we were both going to fire, a grate detached itself from the ceiling, directly above the new terrorist's head. He raised both hands to stop the grate from knocking him on the head, which was exactly the intention; now the terrorist was unable to reach his gun, a 12-gauge shotgun protruded out of the open vent, and a tongue of flame erupted from the muzzle. The force of the shot shoved him to the ground, and I thought I felt a shower of blood on my G-army helmet through the gaps in the grated walkway.

"Nice work," I called up to the shotgun-wielder, raising a thumbs-up. Immediately, crackles of gunfire sounded from another, more distant walkway.

"Go!" a disembodied voice yelled. "I'll cover you." So it was the most obvious of advice, but I was at least appreciative that Zone had decided to get off his chicken-shit ass and do something useful. I sprinted across the walkway, listening out for the rattling of AK fire, and as I ran, I squeezed the trigger of my FA-MAS at irregular intervals, sweeping the rifle across the air in exaggerated arcs. I didn't hear any screams of pain, so I assumed I hadn't hit anyone this time; like the terrorist gunman, I was firing blindly, just spraying ammo around to warn them that I wouldn't hesitate to fire if the need arose.

The returning fire in the distance cut off, maybe because said terrorist had thought better of his ammunition, and so I made it to the staircase without any further distraction. As I suspected, the calm didn't last long, and I found myself jerking to a halt as I saw yet another balaclava-clad thug dart out from round the corner, where the missiles were loaded. Actually, I might have encountered him before, but I wasn't all that interested in making acquaintances with him.

"Who in the hell are you!" he yelled, tightening the grip on a USAS-12 jackhammer shotgun. Fancy weapon, incredibly powerful and fast-firing, but more importantly, Galbadian. Whoever these guys were, they were probably in league with the other Galbadian weirdos I'd encountered on my travels so far – and for the same reason or a different one, they all had a beef with the Sorceress.

"Hi, I'm the postman," I replied, before pulling the trigger on the FA-MAS again, tightening my hands in anticipation of the recoil. But all that came was a dry click, signalling that the clip was empty. I cursed my stupidity; not only had I used all the 5.56 ammo firing at someone who I couldn't even see, let alone hit; like the fucking idiot I was, I hadn't got any reserves of ammo from the soldiers. The soldier sneered laughter like he'd already won the fight; being a little more forward-thinking, I discarded the rifle, which clattered to the floor.

As I swivelled around and began to make my escape, furiously thinking of a secondary plan, I heard the familiar sound of footsteps on metal, along with the over-enthusiastic _clack _of a fresh magazine being slapped in the underside of the USAS-12. _That's my trick, you jerkass, _I thought angrily. Hoping he couldn't see where I'd gone, and that he wasn't far enough up the stairs, I put one hand on the railing and vaulted myself over it, dropping down to the bottom rail so he couldn't see me.

I was hanging precariously on the edge of the railing with just one hand, keeping the other free so I could loose a weapon or something from my belt, and that familiar foot-on-metal sound grew closer by the second. I just prayed he was as stupid as the movie terrorists, and would think I'd magically vanished into thin air. For the first few seconds of creeping and stalking around the walkway, USAS-12 clutched menacingly to chin to look threatening, I thought I'd got away with it.

"Here, piggy piggy," the voice sneered, with the occasional _clank _of another footstep. These guys, I noted dryly, sure were good conversationalists. Then, as he turned to face the railing, frowning down into the darkness below, I stretched my free hand down to my ankle and freed the knife wedged in my sock, and placed it between my teeth. Yeah, it didn't taste so good, but it had to be done.

His head was now right over the top of the railing, leering down with a frown deep enough to grow potatoes in, but I was probably obscured too much by the darkness for him to see me. Or maybe he just needed to go to an optician, or forgot his glasses, or something. Whatever was causing his bout of myopia, it meant he couldn't see my hand, and when he turned around again, I seized the moment immediately. Yanking the knife out of my teeth, I pivoted upward and thrusted the blade into the flesh surrounding his ankle.

"Motherfucker!" he screamed, his jackhammer kicking a shot off at the nearby wall. The diversion was all I needed; using my knife hand, I powered myself up over the grating again, and planted a kick directly under his chin, which snapped his head backward with a cracking sound. If I was lucky, I'd broken his jaw; but even if I had, he still wasn't immobilised enough. As he collapsed to the grating, I grabbed his neck and pressed down hard on the carotid artery, cutting off the blood supply to his brain. Well, that was the intention, but when he looked up to me as if to say _Why don't you just kill me? _I assumed it was another trick I'd seen many times before but never actually put into action. For good measure, and as a response to the unspoken question, I shoved an elbow into his forehead, which finally knocked him unconscious.

"Shut up," I said, dragging the knife out of his ankle and smearing it on his camo greens.

------------------------

_Explosive barrels, _I told myself with a grin. _How come there's always strategically-placed barrels containing highly flammable material in terrorist situations? _You'd think after all the times terrorists have been incinerated by explosive barrels just _asking _to be shot, these Galbadian guys would attempt to avoid the clichés associated with a hostage situation. But much to my surprise – given what Cid had told me about the seriousness of this campaign – these guys were following the Terrorist's Handbook, step-by-step. It wasn't even anything different – the barrels contained nitroglycerine, as they always did. Still, it made my task a hell of a lot easier.

As all good terrorists did (and the amateur ones, at that), they kept all the hostages in a big group, huddled up and kneeling by racks of plutonium cores and decommissioned missiles. From my vantage point in the exhaust vent, I could see terrorists stalking about the place, at least four or five, all armed with the now-standard AKs or combat shotguns, and I think one of them, who kept vanishing behind a wall, had a USAS-12.

"_Can you see them from where you are?" _Watts' voice crackled out of the radio on my belt. Thankfully, he'd chosen to lower his voice slightly, so the echo wasn't loud enough to alert any eavesdroppers.

"Yup," I responded. "All in a group, as usual. If we can get the hostages out of the way, we should be able to take them on. Got any ideas?"

The response to that question? Damn, I think I'd already heard this excuse before, word for word. "We're… working on it." Well, that meant I was in on my own again, much to my surprise (take note: I use sarcasm very often.) The FA-MAS was long out of the question; I'd discarded it on the walkway, but in keeping with my lazy proclivities, I wasn't interested in looking around for ammunition, so it wasn't even a minor consideration. Good thing I'd prepared those USP pistols beforehand. To my disappointment, the USPs didn't have the LEM modules you sometimes found stuck under the barrel (the simplest of all military technology; put the little red dot on your target, and when you fire, that's where the bullet goes) but they were adequate. Hell, they'd save my life if I needed it saved, so that was more important.

There was one terrorist I was beginning to find annoying, not just because he had a bigger gun than I did, but mostly due to his unrelenting pacing around the hangar. I don't think he stopped pacing once the whole time I was watching him – I seriously thought he was going to wear a hole in the floor. But it occurred to me that his set pattern, which he must have followed a good hundred times, involved passing by the aforementioned barrels of nitroglycerine, putting himself in danger from any immediate attacker. If I were him, I wouldn't have strayed too close to bright orange barrels marked with the yellow-and-black danger stripe – because, you know, those stripes are there for a reason – but as I'd realised many times, these guys weren't the professionals they were made out to be.

I turned myself around in the tunnel with as little shuffling as I could muster, ensuring my legs were in front of me so I'd be able to drop out easily for an attack. I placed both feet on the hatch, ready to kick it out in a Zone-style manoeuvre, but as I was recollecting my thoughts, I heard the thunderous explosion of a shotgun. Through the gaps in the hatch, I saw one of the group of terrorists topple over backwards, his face a bloody pulp. The twelve-gauge shot had practically dissolved his face.

"Heads up!" I yelled, and shunted my feet forward. The hatch detached from the vent, and the diversion was exactly right for the terrorists, who'd been preparing to take out the hostages. Immediately, like the inefficient morons they were, they all turned toward the source of the noise. Instinctively, I rolled at the bottom of the short drop, ensuring I didn't land awkwardly on the ground, and whipped the two USPs out of my belt. I think the remaining terrorists had a bit of trouble deciding who to shoot at; me or Zone, who'd created the original diversion; but it was long enough for me to conceal myself behind a cart of 500 kg bombs, which no-one would risk shooting at (unless they felt like evaporating the entire continent for kicks.) I heard Zone's shotgun fire once again, and took this as a cue; with a USP in each hand, I dove out sideways from behind the rack, firing each trigger in a consecutive rhythm. The pacing terrorist, who was diving out of the way, unfortunately found himself darting through the explosive barrels, which, struck by the pistol rounds, exploded in a torrent of orange flame.

"I'm checking the missile launch panel, you watch the hostages!" I yelled to Zone, who, armed with a shotgun, suddenly seemed a million times less inept. The panel in question was out in the main hall, mounted on a wall, and it operated using the most up-to-date software and targeting programs for a lower margin of error. Of course, not being a computer geek, I had little idea how to operate it, but as long as the missiles hadn't already been fired, I was okay.

Something erupted behind me – gunfire, a single-shot round. A sniper. The bullet hammered into the screen of the panel, destroying the technical overlay and any chance the terrorists might have had of destroying a country. The sniper wasn't using laser-sight, so I couldn't use the red beam to triangulate his position, but in the corner of my peripheral vision I saw the familiar reflection of red light on black metal. The sniper had an MSG-90 – the very weapon I'd ruled out of being involved in the assassination I'd carried out in Timber. How he'd got hold of it could be pinned on a specialist gunsmith, but that was an inquiry I'd save till afterwards.

I made a run for the front entrance, wincing as I heard another 7.62mm round ricochet off the railing nearby, and bounded through the still-open entrance. It was pretty hard to conceal myself as I ran; not just because the base was darkened, but his MSG had a state-of-the-art thermal imaging scope, meaning the picture of me on his imaging tube was a blob of orange and green on a dark blue background. He'd have to be as blind as the other guy not to see me – then again, I thought, maybe that idea wasn't too quixotic.

When I finally ran out into the cool afternoon air, my uniform began to show dark sprinkles where the raindrops were still falling. The sniper in question had chosen a strategic position – one of the walkways which ran out of the base and around the perimeter, meaning I had only a few seconds before he showed up again. Running backward, I saw the dark shadow pop out from behind a wall, raising the scope of the rifle to his eye. But he was a few seconds too slow, and I darted behind an outpost building – although he had thermal capabilities, meaning he could see me through walls, he couldn't hit me.

An ingenious idea struck me as I saw a fallen terrorist lying prostrate on the ground, possibly taken out by the newly-renegade Zone. He had incendiary grenades, same as his comrades, and I detached his one from his uniform carefully, as one false move would result in me looking a bit like bacon that's been fried for too long. With the grenade in my left hand, a USP in my right, I leapt out round the outpost building. The sniper was prepared all right, and I saw the rifle he was clutching shift slightly with the firing of a round, and a round drilled perfectly into my left arm. The muscle screamed in pain, but I summoned all my strength to detach the pin of the grenade and fling it toward the sniper in a lazy curving arc. He wasn't as stupid as his friends; as soon as he saw the red cylinder in my right hand, he was whirling around to make his escape. But he'd ventured too far into the open. The grenade, nearing the end of its curve, was directly in my line of fire, and I raised the USP and fired off two shots in uick succession. The first shot was a piece of shit; it smashed into the wall with a spray of concrete, but the second rocketed into the grenade, detonating it in mid-air and showering the unlucky sniper in flaming fragments. Not one to lose initiative, I fired a third shot, aimed at the disabled sniper's head, just to ensure he didn't try anything inventive in his last movements.

My arm wasn't going to take any more exertions, and succumbing to the pain, I slumped to the ground, letting the pistol slip out of my hand. Somehow, against incredible odds, I'd managed to accomplish my mission – although, I had to admit, not without the help of the Forest Owls.

I almost laughed when I saw them run mockingly out of the missile base, seemingly having rounded up the hostages inside and told them to get the hell out of there. Then again, by the looks on the faces of the hostages present, it wasn't that funny.

"Fucking hell!" Zone yelled at me. "_RUN!"_ Well, that was all the encouragement I needed, I can tell you. Although my arm was telling me not to, I scrambled to my feet and started loping away from the base. I wasn't actually looking at it when it exploded, as I was trying to concentrate on running out into the plains and ignoring the thudding in my arm, but my ears registered a crunching explosion, barrels of combustible nitroglycerine ignited by explosives the terrorists had set without anyone's knowledge. And then everything went kind of quiet, accompanied by this annoying, low-end ringing in my ears.

"Fucking hell," Zone proclaimed again, panting as we ground to a halt.

"Fucking hell," I agreed, turning to face the blossoms of orange flame billowing out from the destroyed base.

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Yeah, you can take your seatbelts off now, no more guns and explosions for now. The plot is going to undergo some chicanery in the next chapter, so expect the seemingly unrelated events which have happened so far to be tied together. It's going to start getting twisty soon…

Anything else I need to say? Oh yeah—please read and review! I still need encouragement. If you want to check up on my progress with this story, you can always visit my Livejournal (that's my homepage, for the late person.) Well, that's all. I'm off to air guitar. Till later!


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